This Side of the Equator
by jaxington
Summary: On that side of the Equator a six year age difference is nothing, just a number that loses meaning in the face of adventures and shared interests and long bus rides. But on this side of the Equator, in Forks Washington where Bella is a teacher, six years are everything, an impenetrable barrier that makes life impossible when Edward Cullen shows up as an exchange student.
1. Not on the Syllabus

**So last summer my super beta Donna had a dream. From the sound of it, it was a very good dream, and she told me all about it. This is the story Donna's dream inspired.**

**Oh, I missed Twilight. This is going to be so fun! It's lovely to be back.  
**

**I own nothing. Donna is the best beta (and she made the banner). Thank you so very much for reading.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Not on the Syllabus **

There is a chunk of wispy hair that picks today of all days to be difficult.

I am in my childhood bedroom, standing in front of a mirror that hangs over the dresser I myself painted at age five. It is a finger-painting project I undertook with my mother right before she took off. The paint job is not half bad given what it is and the color only turns brown from too many different shades smeared together in a few places. Overall, it's not a bad piece of furniture for a kid.

I kept it through my teen years as a testament to my mother, some last hope that she would someday come back, and I could proudly display the finger-painted dresser as proof that I never forgot her.

Not like she forgot me.

But I am no longer a teenager, nor do I harbor any delusions that Renee might one day return. At twenty-five, this shit is just depressing.

I look over the dresser at the mirror, unable to decide if I find the odd angles of this patch of wispy hair or this room's decor more irksome.

It's the hair, I decide after five more minutes of messing with it. Giving up, I slip on a headband and call it quits.

Bacon grease hits my nose as I make it halfway down the stairs and I pause, closing my eyes and counting to ten to get a hold of my anger.

After two heart attacks in as many years Charlie was forced to retire, and maybe I didn't have to return to Forks and get a job at the local high school because of my father's health, but it certainly felt like a daughterly requirement.

I'm here in basically the last place I actually want to be because of his heart and the smell of bacon grease hits my nose before I fully make it downstairs.

I count to ten again, slap a smile on my face, and walk down the remainder of the stairs, not stopping until I make it to the kitchen.

"Good morning," I say, planting a kiss on his cheek as I peer over his shoulder at the pan. "Bacon?"

"I know, I know," says Charlie, smiling ruefully. "But today is a special occasion! You need a proper breakfast on your first day as a teacher."

There is so much about this statement I find extremely vexing, but somehow I refrain from being a total bitch. This is Charlie. This is my dad. He gave me everything and I will not resent him. I will not resent him. I will not resent him and his goddamn failing heart.

"The kids are just registering today, Dad," I explain for the fourth time. Still, I manage to keep my voice gentle. "They'll pop into my classroom to meet me or talk about the syllabus, but there won't be any actual class. Plus, it's hardly my first day as a teacher."

Charlie waves a dismissive hand at me. I lean against the counter, watching as he gets the bacon out of the pan, its grease turning the paper towel transparent before oozing into the newspaper below.

That dismissive hand wave is much more annoying than the patch of wispy hair that won't lie flat.

Charlie likes to pretend the last two years since graduation never happened. To him I followed the plan and came home to teach after college. It's as if anything that occurred south of the equator didn't actually happen at all.

They were the best two years of my life. It counts, although even to me there were moments that felt like they didn't.

"Bacon and eggs," Charlie says, grabbing a plate.

"This looks great, Dad," I say, stealing the spatula from him. "I'll take mine to go. And I don't want to make the other teacher's jealous. I think I'll fill up the Tupperware and hand out the goods."

"But—"

I stick an apple in his mouth before speed loading all the bacon and eggs into a large plastic container. My father chews his apple, frowning at me.

"I've gotta go," I say, giving him a bright smile. "Thanks for breakfast, Pop. You have a good day."

Charlie grumbles under his breath. Since the second heart attack forced him to retire, no day has been a good day. People still call him Chief even if he is no longer in charge of the ridiculously small police department. Seeing him like this, reminding myself of his sadness, makes it easier to not resent him.

But then I see the bacon grease and the recycling full of beer cans.

"I love you, kid," he says as I shoulder my bag.

"Love you too, Dad." I kiss his cheek. "I'll be home to make dinner."

* * *

Jasper doesn't look up from the book on his desk until I drop the breakfast on top of it. He jumps slightly in his seat, glasses sliding down his nose as he gapes up at me.

"Shit," he says, clutching his chest. "You scared me."

"You were engrossed," I observe.

"Fuck yeah I was engrossed," he says, carefully lifting the Tupperware and smoothing out the pages. "This is the _Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave._"

"So just some light morning reading, huh?"

He glares at me. "Can I help you, Isabella?"

"I brought you breakfast," I explain.

Jasper lifts the lid, inhales deeply, and seems to forgive me for disturbing his reading. "Why did you bring me breakfast?"

I shrug.

Jasper gives me a stern look, but it doesn't take him long to figure it out. We were close in high school, even if we drifted in college, but now that we are both once more back at Forks High we picked up our friendship like we never stopped so it doesn't take Jasper long to figure it out.

It never took Jasper long to figure it out.

"Charlie cooked this," he says, digging around in a desk drawer and emerging with a couple of plastic forks. "Charlie was going to eat this."

"Charlie was going to eat this," I agree, taking a bite of egg. I'll leave the excessive amount of bacon to Jasper. The sight of it alone is making me angry again. It makes it hard not to resent my wonderful father who worked his whole life to ensure that I never missed out on anything.

"And you stole it?" he asks.

"Basically."

"How?"

"I shoved an apple in his mouth and spouted some bullshit about wanting to share this with the rest of the staff so they wouldn't be jealous," I say.

Jasper snorts and munches happily on his bacon. "Kids are going to be trickling in any time now."

"How exactly does this work?" I probably should have asked this before now. "What am I supposed to do?"

"You just need to be hanging out in your classroom, getting your shit together for next week," he says. "The kids register in the cafeteria, pay for their yearbook, all that admin shit. They get their schedules and a lot of them like to wander around the school, finding their locker and seeing where the rooms are so they don't have to figure it out on the first day. They are just rearing to meet the new teacher."

"Awesome."

"Bella, it's going to be great."

And maybe that is a possibility but I will still be teaching seventeen-year-old boys.

I have a terrible track record with seventeen-year-old boys.

"Bella?"

"Right. Yes. Great." I take a few deep breaths. "It's going to be great."

* * *

My school in Chile was fancy. People are so divided by class there, and my school catered to the richest of the rich. It was the best education money could buy and the teachers were required to look the part. It was all suits and pencil skirts and neatly ironed button ups.

On my first day at Forks High a week ago I showed up in khakis and a blue blouse. I walked into the auditorium and it felt a bit like I was naked.

Before me was a sea of jeans and Chacos and t-shirts.

This was something I should have remembered from my time as a student here, but business casual in the best private school in Reñaca is not business casual in Forks.

These people were once my teachers and they were staring at me like an outsider. I walked down the aisle, not knowing where to sit, hearing familiar whispers.

"Jacob Black," some said.

"Too good for Forks," said others. "A woman of the world."

Jasper tugged me into a seat beside him. "Students aren't even here for another two weeks," he said. "Why don't you go casual?"

"I thought this was casual," I muttered, blushing.

"Jeans, Bells," he said. "Jeans."

* * *

Today is the first day I will actually meet my students and I just couldn't quite manage jeans. Still, I tried to "go casual," choosing a black cotton skirt, tights, a white blouse, and a pink scarf.

Fiddling with the unfortunate chunk of wispy hair and messing with my headband, I stand in the very center of my classroom, trying to figure out what to do with myself as I wait for students to trickle in and say hi after they get their schedules. Turning in a slow circle I take in the cheesy READ posters that depict celebrities with books, the bulletin board devoted to my travels, and the wall of bookcases filled with thick textbooks and easy reads, just for fun.

The white board is spotless. The desks form a wide oval, none of those shitty rows, and I really don't know what to do with myself.

Since moving back to Forks I've had far too much time and nothing to do but resent my father and wallow in the lost possibilities. In the two years I was away, America became foreign to me, Forks became foreign to me, and all the free summertime made it that much worse.

It gave me time to miss places and people. Especially people. Especially one person.

The second they assigned me a classroom I was here, setting up shop, writing out lesson plans, and now with less than a week to go until the students descend, I've run out of tasks. It doesn't seem possible, but I really, truly do not know what to do with myself.

I've lived in this classroom for days because it's so much better than home. I like the quiet.

"Bella?"

I spin on my heel towards the tentative voice at the door. There is a student here, clutching a white piece of paper, his mouth agape. He is calling me Bella and damn, do those blue eyes look familiar.

"Mikey?" I ask, horrified when I make the connection.

He grins as he enters the room, emboldened by my shocked and decidedly un-teacher-like statement. With much more confidence than he was displaying before I remembered his name, Mikey Newton hops up to sit on one of the desks, his legs swinging.

"Wow," he says. "I guess the rumors were true. It's just weird to see you here, is all."

I nod dumbly.

"I have you fourth period," he says. "AP Lit."

"Right. Yep. Here I am." I fiddle with my hair and berate myself for sounding like an idiot. "I haven't seen you since you were about nine."

"You were the best babysitter," he says. "I was pissed when you went away to college."

I did not go far, but rarely did I venture out of Seattle after I moved. Compared to experiencing all the big city had to offer, Forks felt so small.

Still does.

"It's Mike now," he says when I just gape at him.

"Mike," I repeat. This whole teaching in Forks thing is going to be so fucking weird. "Right. Hi, Mike. And it's Miss Swan, now."

"Right. Miss Swan. Hi."

"So AP Literature," I say, trying to cloak myself in my teacher persona.

When I first got the job in Chile I pretended to be an actress playing the role of teacher. It helped until I started to feel like an actual real life teacher, but Forks has me out of sorts and I fall back on the old coping mechanism now.

"Yup."

"Are you a big English fan?"

"Well," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes drop to my chest and I am oddly comforted that at least there is one thing the same about teaching state side. Seventeen-year-old boys everywhere ogle the goods. "It's okay. I thought it would be cool to have you as a teacher and this was the only junior class you teach."

I blink at him, realization donning. AP Lit is the class I am most excited about and my only honors class this year, but my stomach sinks as I come to understand that I'm going to get a lot of students more interested in me than Margaret Atwell.

I am the Chief's daughter. I am the girl that left little by little until I put a continent between this town and me. Last time I was home I dumped my boyfriend of six years in the diner. It was a scene.

No one leaves Forks, not really. Of course the kids are interested in my story.

"Here's the syllabus," I say, retrieving a copy from my desk and handing it over. Mike tries really hard to brush my fingers with his during hand off, but after two years on the job I know all the tricks and avoid his grubby little paws. "Check out the reading list."

"This is going to be like reading a book a week!" He is horrified and I try not to grin.

"Well, you do get college credit for the course. And all these books will be on the test. Did you do the summer reading?" I ask.

"Um," he says, exceedingly uncomfortable, on. "Yes?"

"Great! It was only recommended, not required, but I am thrilled you are a head of the game. What selection was your favorite?" I ask, smiling pleasantly.

Mike breaks after only seconds.

"Okay. I didn't do any reading. You weren't even here last year. How could you even assign any reading?"

"Turns out they have the internet in Chile. I posted it after I got hired."

Mike rolls his eyes. I wonder if he'll even last two weeks in AP land.

"So, Bella," he starts.

"Miss Swan," I correct.

"Right. Miss Swan. So what have you been up to the last couple years while I was growing up?" he asks.

I open my mouth, ready to direct him to the bulletin board that includes a map of South America, all the places I traveled, and recommended reading from each country, but I'm interrupted.

"Adventure!"

I freeze, staring straight ahead at a poster of Johnny Knoxville reading Hemmingway. The voice is coming from my open door and if I just turn my head only a few inches I could easily see the newcomer, but I can't move.

The voice is English and happy and so painfully familiar.

There are three options to explain its presence in my classroom now.

One, I am crazy. In the long months since seeing the owner of that voice I've developed some sort of abrupt onset auditory delusion. His voice could easily be in my head only.

Two, my memory is faulty. Perhaps I simply want to hear his voice once again, crooning in that ridiculously attractive and unique accent of his, making me laugh. So desperate am I for the voice, any vaguely English sounding person becomes him.

Or three – most probable and horrible of all – he is here.

Except he could not possibly be here.

I don't want him to be here in my school, being so painfully young and way too fucking sexy for his own good.

Or my own good.

Or the good of anyone anywhere, really.

There is no way that he is here in my school, in my home town, in little nowhere Forks.

Turning my head ever so slightly would solve the mystery, but suddenly I am terrified. I cannot decide what option is worse. If he isn't here, the disappointment will be crushing and if the voice really is him I am screwed.

I'd rather just stay frozen in place, looking at Johnny Knoxville.

The choice is taken away from me because the owner of the voice moves to stand next to Mikey Newton, the whole glorious length of him is suddenly right in front of me. He is blocking my view of Johnny and for a few moments I hold on to the hope that I am crazy. I hope the auditory delusion now has a visual accompaniment because the alternative is too outlandish and terrible and wonderful to truly contemplate.

"She's been having adventures, mate," says my delusion to a gawking Mikey Newton.

"What?" sputters Mike. Perhaps he is in on the delusion.

"While you were learning to ride a bicycle without stabilizers she was having adventures," repeats the delusion, slinging an arm over my student's shoulders.

The delusion is staring at me, smirking that knowing smirk. His eyes travel down my body, bright and knowing. I realize that I've been fiddling with my hair.

I drop my hand and bump into my desk as I back up, unable to hide my nerves even with my teacher persona shrouding my body like the most useless imaginary armor.

"Dude," says Mike, shaking off my delusion. "Who are you?"

"Edward Cullen," I murmur. My eyes are wide and my stomach is revolting, but I can't look away, don't want to.

He is so much _more_ than I remember; more attractive, more cocky, more of a mistake.

And he's not a delusion. He's really here. I can't recall ever being this shocked in a quarter century of living, but then he speaks again, making the whole thing so much worse.

"Looks like we're classmates," Edward says, patting Mike on the head without ever looking away from me. "Exchange student."

"Uh, welcome to Forks?" Mike manages.

Edward laughs and my stomach muscles tighten. I have to lean against my desk to keep my legs from completely failing to hold me up.

"Cheers," says Edward. It's a purr. It's a promise.

I am so totally screwed.

* * *

"I should have learned Spanish." Despite the gloriously sunny day, my groan is miserable. "Why didn't I learn Spanish?"

"Why are you complaining?" asks Rosalie. "They don't want their English teachers to know Spanish. I speak Spanish. Do you know how difficult it is to keep my classroom an all 'English zone' now that the little shits know I can understand them? It's so fucking hard to enforce the English only rule."

I open my eyes to look at my coworker turned friend, but the sun is too bright, even through the protective layer of my sunglasses. I close my eyes again, trying to enjoy the fact that I am sunbathing in December.

It feels strange to be sunbathing in December, but most things way down south still feel strange.

Rosalie's a veteran. This is her second year teaching and she says eventually things are not so strange.

Still, I'd rather have ice and freezing toes because Charlie is too cheap to turn up the heat, even on Christmas. I never thought I'd be overly homesick, but here I am, craving cold toes and my dad rather than a beach in December.

"You shouldn't call your students little shits," I say.

"Do you know how they found out I speak the language?" Rosalie asks, pissed now. She shuffles on her towel next to mine, getting my arm sandy. "A group of them were talking about all the ways they want to fuck me, with me right the fuck there. High schoolers are little shits, regardless of nationality."

I change my opinion on speaking the native tongue.

"I don't want to know what my students say about me," I amend.

"Oh, they want to fuck you too," she says as if I was worried they didn't. "But they also want to marry you. You're the nice one. I'm the bitch. We make quite the team, Madonna and the whore. If they were better English speakers I'd throw some feminism into the curriculum."

"Yeah," I say, snorting. "Like the administration would sign off on you teaching _The Handmaids Tale_."

"Stick to the syllabus!" shrieks Rosalie in a dead on impersonation of our boss. We both giggle.

Sitting up on my towel, I put more sunscreen on my face and look at the endless ocean. Rose drinks piscola – the national booze of Chile mixed with coke– out of a water bottle, handing it to me when she's had her fill.

I cough after taking a large gulp, forgetting that with Rose it is more like pisco with a splash of coke for color.

"You are shit at Spanish," Rose muses. "You've been here for a whole semester already and can still barely get an order in at a food truck. It's damn funny."

"It's not funny," I insist. "The staff thinks I'm one of those horrible Americans who moves to another country with no real interest in the language, just expecting everyone to speak English. I genuinely want to learn but it's just so hard and I am so bad."

"It's not that hard."

"It so hard."

Everything about my move to Reñaca has been hard.

They warn you when you decide to teach English abroad that it will be a struggle, but I didn't really get it until I arrived last July.

Teaching is hard.

Learning to navigate a new city – especially one that jams up into two other cities making it all seem like one giant, confusing city – is hard.

Apologizing to your landlord for ruining the pipes because no one mentioned that here in Chile toilet paper gets placed in the trash rather than flushed, is extremely hard.

But taking this job south of the equator is also proving to be the best decision of my life. For the first time, I am my own person.

A group of boys wolf whistle in our general direction and I spill a bit of piscola as I hand the drink back to Rose.

Getting used to the way Chilean men feel the need to constantly, verbally express their attraction was also hard. At least with my short stature and dark hair I can blend in. Rosalie has no chance with her height and blonde hair and model face.

"You're lucky you found me, Swan," Rosalie says. "If I wasn't here to provide some direction you'd have been back state side in less than two months."

I am about to reply, to agree, but a body is flopping into the sand at my side. I stare at him, blinded by his beauty. For a second this doesn't even seem real and I blink a few times to make sure my eyes are still functioning.

Because he is just stunningly beautiful.

Really, there is no other word to better describe the jaw and the body and the hair. The sun makes the bronze strands shine and I can do nothing but ogle.

His mouth is moving, forming words, presumably speaking to me in a language I cannot understand, but I am beyond hearing. Staring at all the toned, tanned, sculpted man at my side is all I can do in this moment.

"Bella!" Rose yells, making me jump. I drop my gaze to my lap, ashamed to get caught staring at the long limbs and muscles that ripple over his narrow frame. "What, do you not even speak English now?"

"What?" I manage. My voice is hoarse.

"You're American!" declares the beautiful boy, smiling widely. He bumps his shoulder into mind and as I blush I wonder what color his eyes are behind his dark sunglasses. "Brilliant. Where from?"

Holy shit. That accent, that voice.

English and blessedly speaking a language I do actually understand.

"Rosalie is from Texas," I say. This stunning male specimen is practically in my lap but it doesn't make sense with Rose right here.

She rolls her eyes at me and deliberately puts her book in front of her face, forcing me to interact with the British stranger who is so ridiculously out of my league.

"So that's Rosalie," he says, jerking his chin at my roommate. Although the shades make it difficult, it feels like he continues to look at me. "And you are, love?"

The nickname shouldn't charm me. In theory the endearment is creepy and should most definitely not charm me.

It does.

"Bella," I say. Hoping he will mistake my blush for an awful, but short-lived sunburn.

"Bella." He caresses my name, pronouncing it like the Chileans do. Their accents make it sound like something special and secret. They make me feel like my name belongs to someone infinitely more sexy and interesting. "Bella. Perfect. And you are American, Bella?"

"Yes."

"Where in America?"

"Washington."

"DC?" In his excitement he kicks out his feet, leaving divots in the sand. His enthusiasm makes me smile. "I practically was raised in the capitol. Well, I was practically raised everywhere, but I remain fond of DC, especially in the spring: Cherry blossoms."

"No," I say, hating to disappoint him. "I'm from Washington State,"

"Ah," he says. "I've also been to New York, but this is on the coast opposite to your soggy corner of country, I believe."

"You're British. How can you accuse anyone of being soggy?"

He throws his head back and laughs. I admire the muscles in his neck and let myself take in the glorious rest of him. He is all lean muscle and sinewy limbs. I blush again.

"Fair point," he says. "Well made. Are you from Seattle? I have a cousin in Seattle. Or perhaps a cousin's cousin. Still, a distant relation. Although I've never quite made it out to your east coast, I'm afraid."

I find even his blathering to be endearing.

"I went to school in Seattle, but I'm from a tiny town north west of there. What about you?" I throw in the question as an after thought. It is something Rosalie says I should ask. I dated my last – and first and only – boyfriend for years and now that I am single again I find myself woeful inept when it comes to simple conversation with excessively handsome boys.

"I, sweet Bella, am a child of the world," he announces, spreading his arms out above his head as if to demonstrate. "Bella means beautiful. You must know this. Surely you get told this all the time, but still. An extremely fitting name."

"Thank you," I say, still blushing. "But it's a weird compliment, talking about my name seeing as you haven't even told me yours."

His friends are yelling at him in Spanish. They are the wolf whistlers. I look at them at the volleyball net, falling all over each other like my students. Rude hand gestures are exchanged and one boy humps the air, making the boy at my side grumble.

"My friends are terrible," he mutters. "Remind me to get new ones."

I laugh, but there is more yelling in rapid Spanish. Rosalie snorts at something they say from behind her book, and the boy at my side is yelling back, waving his hands around his head and scowling. His dramatics make me grin, even though I have no idea what they are actually saying.

Sighing heavily, the boy gets to his feet. Facing me, he backs away towards his friends.

"The teams are uneven," he explains. "Apparently, uneven teams are the end of the world. And my name is Edward. Edward Cullen."

He gets hit in the head with the volleyball and then his foot slips into a hole in the sand. He makes such a scene with his fall that even Rose puts down her book to stare. He nearly catches himself several times before the momentum gets the best of him and he pitches forward, landing face first in some poor child's sandcastle.

His friends are crying they laugh so hard and Rosalie is grinning like an idiot. I am far more charmed than I should be. Edward Cullen lost his glasses in the fall and when he looks up from the sand I can see his eyes. They are green and I blush again.

"I give it a ten!" I tell him.

Edward laughs, brushing off the sand as he gets to his feet. 'Where are you going to be tonight, love?" he asks.

I bite my lip, wracked with indecision.

Flirtation is one thing, but I haven't been with anyone since Jacob. Hell, I haven't been with anyone _but_ Jacob, and I'm not sure if I am ready for anything at all, even if it's casual.

But he is so damn attractive and painfully endearing.

Rose takes the choice away from me.

"She'll be at The Casino," says my roommate.

"The Casino," Edward repeats, grinning at me. "If you're there, then there is where I'll be."

He gives me a salute before turning around and saving the world from a fate of volleyball teams with odd numbers.


	2. Wide as the Ocean

**Chapter 2: Wide as the Ocean**

Mikey Newton is gone.

Somehow.

Mike Newton is gone and I hope I acted like a teacher as he departed, but I can't really recall even if it just fucking happened.

In the classroom it's just Edward, Johnny Knoxville reading a book, and me. I've lost track of how long we've been standing here, surrounded by desks and staring at each other.

Gone is Edward's smirk, replaced by a little smile. I want the smirk back because the blatant lust I can handle. The softness in him reminds me of that long ago night on a bus crossing the Andes when he told me he loved me.

Fuck.

"Stop that," I say.

He jumps slightly, surprised by either my words, or the harsh tone with which they were delivered.

"Stop what?" His accented voice is as soft as his expression.

"Being here!" I am getting hysterical and somewhat mean, but this is my job, my life, my career, and if he really is an exchange student I am so utterly fucked.

His face falls, making him look that much younger.

I hate that he looks younger.

"You don't want me around?" he murmurs.

"Edward," I say, leaning against my desk. Needing a moment to collect myself, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. Three deep breaths and my hands fall to my sides as I straighten to look at him. He's closed the distance between us. I have to look up to meet his eyes. "You're an exchange student?"

"Cool, yeah?" he says, smiling once more.

"You're an exchange student in _Forks_?" I demand, not really believing it.

"You moved back to Forks. I came to Forks. Simple."

"No!" I shriek, glancing nervously towards my still open door. "No! Not simple. You are my student, Edward. How are you still in high school? You're nineteen. You just turned nineteen. You graduated! Shouldn't you be following in your father's footsteps by now?"

He shrugs. "They let you take a year after you graduate, if you want. They call it gap year. And I wanted too."

"You wanted to stay in high school? As an exchange student?" I am getting hysterical again.

"Yeah," he mutters, dropping his gaze to his feet. It is the first time he's stopped looking at me since appearing in my classroom. I am bereft without his stare. "Only way I could see it for Carlisle to give me a year to myself, before I follow in his footsteps, as you say."

Now I am the one going soft. I want to go to him and wrap my arms around his waist, making silly faces at him again until he is once more my smiling, happy Edward. I want to tell him that his father absolutely sucks and that Edward is perfect.

Instead I sit on the edge of my desk, my hands clawing into the surface at my sides as I struggle to stay away.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

"It's been a bit of time, Bella," he says, shrugging. "For months we didn't speak at all."

Not since Charlie had his second heart attack and I decided to move home at the end of last school year.

"I'm sure you didn't lose my e-mail."

"I just… you'd talk me out of it."

"Damn right!" My anger is returning again and I bite my lips together, trying to figure out what to do.

Certainly not him.

No, there will be no _doing_ the student.

At least he is nineteen now.

But he sure as hell wasn't nineteen then.

The difference in our ages once felt like nothing, forgotten in the face of shared interests and experience. Now these six years separating us might as well be the fucking ocean.

And they will drown me.

"I'm your teacher," I repeat.

"I forget how prudish Americans are," he says, rolling his eyes. He takes another step closer and I push back into my desk with such force that the metal legs drag on the linoleum. The sound is unpleasant but Edward takes another step. I scramble around the desk, pleased to have a physical barrier separating us. "Are you running from me, love?"

"Do not call me that!" I am absolutely seething, glancing at the door every three seconds. I play with that annoying patch of wispy hair at my temple. The rate I am going this will be another nervous habit, joining the lip biting. "In this classroom, in this school, it's Miss Swan."

Edward comes around the desk. I move to the other side. We circle each other with the desk in the center. It feels like a bizarre mating ritual, but I am not sure how to stop now without letting him get too close.

I glance at the door. And then again. And then again.

Still no students but I doubt my luck will hold.

"Miss Swan," he says, voice low and husky and full of promise. I curse his accent and the things it always does to my insides. "I do believe I've called you this before."

The memory is so clear I could be reliving it.

"_Why, Miss Swan," he whispers as I crawl into his bed. We are in a large room of bunk beds in a hostel, but it's late and mostly empty anyway. "I do believe you are trying to seduce me."_

"_Trying?" My teeth sink into his earlobe._

"_Succeeding. Always, love."_

I shake my head.

"Get out," I demand, pointing towards the door.

His smile falters, along with his pursuit. We stop at either end of the desk and he sees something in my expression that makes him grimace.

"Bella—"

"You shouldn't have done this, Edward. I'm now your teacher, even if you are of age and even if you graduated in Argentina. This is my life and you may only be here for a year, but you could seriously fuck up my whole career. Please, just get out."

He nods once, turning on his heel. Those long legs move fast and far too soon he disappears around the corner.

I sink into my chair, shocked and numb.

I want to call Rosalie but my best friend recently got a position at a secondary school in China. Calling isn't exactly an option. Instead I compose an email in my head, not daring to actually type the thing up while at work.

My next group of students arrives, three girls this time, and I pull on my teacher persona like armor. It will need to double as a chastity belt if I have any shot of surviving this stunning turn of events.

* * *

My cheek is on a chest.

The skin is smooth and warm and for a moment I think it must be Jacob. I've never slept on another chest, only Jacob's, and with my head aching the way it aches, this is the only possible solution.

The room is far too bright. I haven't even opened my eyes yet, but the light filling the room is already causing my head that much more pain.

This is a hangover. I've only experienced a few, but my head is throbbing in time with my heartbeat so it is definitely a hangover. Vomiting would definitely improve the condition of my stomach and my mouth is the consistency of cotton.

All my hangovers – save for one the morning after graduation – have occurred south of the equator. I didn't drink much in college, far too focused on my studies and needing to make sure that Charlie wouldn't regret pouring his life savings into my education. My newfound appreciation for drinking is all Rosalie's doing.

Wait.

South of the equator.

I'm in Chile. I live in Chile now and Jake is still in La Push. I left him there after breaking up with him a week after getting my degree. This is not Jacob Black's chest and suddenly there is another reason not to open my eyes, besides the light.

I really would rather not know whose chest this is, especially after I become aware enough of my own wounded body to realize that I am buck-naked.

So the eyes stay closed and my cheek stays on the chest. Really, it is a very nice chest, soft and muscled, but not too muscled. Not like Jake, who spends every spare second in the gym, lifting weights.

I remember Rosalie and Angela and the need to get wasted because not one of us could afford a plane ticket home for the holiday. I remember paying to get into The Casino and the unlimited drinks until one AM. I remember telling Rosalie that we needed to get our money's worth and the countless times we got in line for more piscola.

There was a boy, the British boy from the beach. He grinned at me and his friends teased him in Spanish, teased me about not speaking Spanish. He defended my honor and bowed, offering his hand when he asked me to dance like we were in a Jane Austen novel rather than a nightclub with strobe lights and reggaeton music making conversation nearly impossible.

The British boy from the beach bought me McDonalds as the sun came up. Chilean McDonalds are so much fancier than the American versions and he let me eat most of his French fries.

As we waited for a taxi he fretted over the safety of the stray dogs chasing cars. There are so many strays in Viña del Mar, and I've already learned to ignore them, but wherever he comes from does not have the dog problem and he worried that the wild late night drivers would hit them.

He told me where he comes from but in this moment I can't remember.

I couldn't afford a taxi all the way back to my laughably tiny apartment in Reñaca, but he paid like it was nothing.

He kissed me in the back of the car and the driver scolded us. They chatted in Spanish and I could not stop giggling.

The rest isn't so easy to remember, and it comes back to me in flashes.

He couldn't keep his hands off me as I fumbled with my lock. I forgot to worry about where Rose ended up – shit, where the hell did Rose end up? – as his hands slipped under my shirt, cradling my hips. His breath was hot on my neck and it had been so long and I needed it so bad. I pushed back into him as his teeth found the corner of my jaw and I arched my back, the key forgotten. His hands were my new favorite things in the whole world; a thumb found a nipple as the other slipped beneath my skirt.

I never did find my keys, but he must have grown another arm because he didn't stop touching me but also managed to get us through my front door.

And the rest was perfect: drunkenly clumsy and fluid and so fucking _good_. I shake a little as the memories come back in snippets, all hot kisses and rolling hips.

That desperately breathless little noise he makes when he really likes something echoes in my head.

Remembering everything is making me want to do it again, despite the headache, and he is playing with my hair.

"You're awake," he murmurs. It is not a question.

I nod, shuffling slightly to hide my face in his chest. I like his chest.

"Bella," he says, and I feel guilty because he is the British boy from the beach to me. I can't find his name in my hung over head. "I've really got to pee."

This should not make me giggle, but it does and I decide I've got to still be at least a little bit drunk. I really don't want to leave the chest, but I roll over, letting him go. He makes a noise like he's not entirely pleased with this recent development before I feel the mattress shift. I consider telling him where the bathroom is, but he probably has already been there. If not, this apartment is so small and he'll have no problem finding it on his own.

While he's gone I fully wake up, realizing that this is actually kind of a big deal.

Before last night, there was only Jacob. I'd never even considered indulging in a one-night stand, but here I am, thoroughly fucked by a guy whose name I don't even remember.

Panicking slightly I open my eyes, scrambling around to look at the trashcan underneath the bedside table. There is a condom wrapper on the floor. It didn't make it in the trash, but it's there and I calm somewhat.

At least that part turned out right.

I hear him flush and I panic again when I realize that I am completely naked and exposed. Even my sheet ended up on the other side of my closet-sized room. The only thing within reach is a green t-shirt and I pull it on over my head. It is only after I see the British boy from the beach leaning against my doorframe, smirking, that I realize the shirt is his.

I blush.

"That's an excellent color for you," he says.

"Thank you."

He laughs and bounds across the room, leaping back into bed. He kisses me and for a moment I forget that my mouth tastes like ass, but when he reaches up to tilt my face back my head feels like it is splitting and I wince against his lips.

"Poor Bella," he murmurs. There is a pill bottle in his hand and a water bottle in his lap. "These were sitting outside your door. Must have been your roommates doing."

"Is Rose here?" I ask.

"No."

"You sure?"

He chuckles. "This is a very small flat. Her door is open. Why did you get the small room?"

My room really is more like a slightly wider hallway than an actual bedroom, but it's home and his words make me cranky.

"Give me that." I snatch the bottle out of his hand and take four pills, drinking the entire bottle of water as I wash them down.

"Better?" he asks.

I shrug and crawl over him to get to get to the bathroom myself, grabbing a clean pair of panties on my way out.

I stay locked in the bathroom for a long time, for such a long time it becomes weird. I brush my teeth a couple times, thoroughly flossing in between. I comb my hair, pulling it up into a ponytail, then taking it down, then putting it back up. I wish I brought a fresh change of clothes, but this t-shirt will have to do for now.

Taking my hair down once more, I finally leave the bathroom, only to make a quick pit stop in the kitchen to boil some water for coffee. It gives me a few more seconds to figure out what I am supposed to do about the dude in my bed.

This is a first for me, and I have no idea how this morning after thing is supposed to work. It doesn't help that my head hurts too much to do any real thinking.

When I get back to my room the British boy from the beach is propped up on some pillows wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. His legs are crossed at his ankles and he is reading Pablo Neruda.

"It's better in the original Spanish you know," he says, not even glancing up.

"So I've been told. Although I find I am pretty in to the translation," I reply, loitering awkwardly by my open door. He is still reading and I take the moment to really study him.

I can't recall ever meeting a more attractive person. Everything about him seems just right, from his green eyes and bronze hair to his long limbs and perfectly muscled chest. I admire his tanned skin and the angles of his face.

I wonder what he could possibly see in me. I am nothing but a mousy little teacher.

"You really live here," he muses, setting the poetry book down on his stomach and looking at me contemplatively. A little furrow appears between his brows. "Come here."

I do, perching on the edge of my bed. He throws an arm around my waist as if it is natural, as if he has done this a hundred times before on a hundred different mornings.

"You don't speak Spanish," he reminds me unnecessarily. I am already painfully aware of this fact. "I thought you were just a tourist, but this isn't a hotel or a hostel. You _live_ here."

"I do," I reply, not remembering what I told him about my life here in Reñaca last night. "I've been here since July."

"Why?" he asks, his hand slipping under his shirt that I wear. He strokes my hipbone with his thumb and my headache improves slightly. "What do you do here?"

"I teach English," I explain.

"You're a language instructor?" he asks, obviously amused.

"English. Speaking the native tongue is not a requirement. It's an emersion class. No Spanish allowed."

"Do you like it?" he asks.

I grin. "Yes. I love it."

"Do you teach primary school?"

"Secondary."

For whatever reason, this makes the boy from the beach laugh and laugh.

"What?" I ask, not getting it.

"You just seem a bit young to be teaching seventeen year olds."

I shrug because his statement is partially true. I am a little young and sometimes it's hard to stay in that role of the authority, but I am learning as much as my students and I wouldn't change anything about my job.

"And what do you do?" I ask, not sure if I really even want to know. I can't even remember his name and I always though that part of the one nightstand thing was slinking home without any conversation, but here I am, getting to know the British boy from the beach.

"I'm still in school," he says. "In Argentina."

"Really? Why Argentina?"

"Well, I am Argentine." He says this in his adorable English accent and I frown. He laughs at my expression. "It's true. My mum's family practically owns half the country. My dad is English."

I get a little more interested in the half British, half Argentine boy from the beach.

"And I'm here on holiday with some friends," he finishes. It is clear from his tone that he wants to talk about himself about as much as I want to talk about myself which is not at all.

I nod and don't push.

Things get awkward and we sit in silence.

"So, what now," I ask.

"What now?" he repeats obviously confused.

"I don't know what comes next," I say, blushing. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?" he asks, sitting straight up. His eyes are wide and horrified. "Sex?"

"No!" My face is burning. "I mean yes. No, not sex. Yes, I've had sex."

"Good," he says with a sigh. "I would have… I don't know, been gentler or something if you'd never done that before."

I don't think I'll ever stop blushing again. The teapot is whistling and I flee.

"Water's ready," I say even as I move to the kitchen. "Do you want coffee?"

"You make coffee in a tea pot?" He is leaning against a wall, watching me as I move around in the tiny space between the stove and the sink. He's pulled his jeans on over his underwear.

"No, French press." I demonstrate.

"Do you have tea?" he asks, frowning slightly.

"I think Rose might have maté. Will that work?"

"Fabulously."

I get out the funny little gourd thing. Although I've never made maté, I've certainly watched Rose enough times to get it right, pouring the hot water into the leaves, and handing both gourd and tea pot over to Edward.

"Cheers," he murmurs, cradling it between his hands as he waits for it to cool slightly.

I make coffee and then lean against the kitchen counter, not sure what to do now besides drink.

"What have you never done before?" he asks.

"What?"

"Before. You said you'd never done _this_ before. What'd you mean?"

"Ah," I say, clearing my throat and blushing scarlet. "Taken home a stranger. I'm not usually into one night stands," I explain.

Why I was into it last night is a bit of a mystery. Maybe it was his stunning good looks and easy smiles. Maybe it was the way he bowed when he asked me to dance and grinned in a way that was not nearly as gentlemanly. Maybe it was his concern for mangy, stray dogs and all the French fries he let me steal.

"Oh," he says, grinning again. "Me neither."

"You neither?"

"Yes."

"You've never had a one night stand before?" I ask. He is so hot and so charming. This shocks me.

"No," he replies. "And I'd rather not start now. I'm here for another four nights."

"Oh," I say, unsure if I want to do this all over again.

"No need to fret, love," he says, trying not to laugh at me. "I'm not looking for you to commit the next four days of your life. Maybe we could start out with a meal? And if we enjoy the meal you could show me the city and so on and so on."

"A meal?"

"Indeed."

"And then maybe showing you around Reñaca?"

"And then Viña. And then Valpo. There's that hilly neighborhood with all the murals, yeah? Have you been?"

"Yeah," I say, fighting a smile. "I've been."

"And if that goes well, I'll buy you a drink and you'll kiss me because you want to and you'll bring me back here and we'll start all over again. But, that being said, feel free to tell me to piss off at anytime."

"I don't remember your name!" My face is so hot. I could die from embarrassment right here in the kitchen.

He throws his head back and laughs. The sound is delightful. "Edward, you ridiculous American. I'm Edward."

"Edward. Right! Yes. Sorry."

"Now you'll definitely have to get food with me. I obviously need a bit more time to make myself memorable."

There is no fighting my smile. "A meal then."

"Excellent! It's a date."

* * *

**Holy Toledo, the response to the last chapter just blew me away! Seriously, what a warm welcome. You guys sure know how to make a girl smile. Thanks so very much for that.**

**All the reviews were so very lovely.**

**To the anon from Viña: Hello there! This is why I love fanfiction. It makes the whole world seem small. I visited your area for a few weeks a couple years ago so most of this Chile stuff comes from that experience. Please please please let me know if I get anything wrong!**

**The next chapter is mostly written. Stay tuned!**


	3. Great Big World

**Chapter 3: Great Big World**

At the end of this very long day, Jasper sticks his head in my classroom.

"Drinks?" he asks.

"God, yes."

Grabbing my purse and flicking off the lights, I lock my door behind me. It's only registration and I'm already exhausted.

This is mostly Edward's doing.

"Are you okay?" Jasper asks, eyeing me critically as we make our way to the staff parking lot.

"Just overwhelmed," I confess. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"You have two years under your belt."

"That barely counts," I say, whining only a little bit. This is Jasper and Edward is my student, so I feel entitled to a bit of whining. "With English Language Learners you take one simple, tiny concept and teach it ten ways. Music, games, worksheet, and just talking. That's it. That's the whole day. This is critical literary analysis, and I am in so over my head here."

"Fake it till you make it," Jasper replies. "School hasn't even started. Give it two weeks and things won't seem so dire. Fake it. That's what I do."

I nod and relax slightly; relieved to hear that I'm not the only one who acts the part of teacher.

After Edward popped up in my life again this morning, I entrenched myself in the teacher persona like I was playing an educator on fucking Broadway. Now I want to shed the character of Bella the teacher to just be myself – crazy, neurotic, overwhelmed mess that I am.

"Who's in your truck?" Jazz asks as we stop by his vehicle.

Across the parking lot a man sits in the bed of my old Chevy, legs swinging off the back. For a moment I panic, sure that it's Edward waiting for me, sure that Jazz will see and I will be caught, but the figure is bulkier, taller, with chin length black hair tucked behind his ears.

The man is without a doubt Jacob Black.

My relief is short lived when I realize that I'll now have to talk to him.

"Shit," I mutter.

"So what's going on there?" Jasper asks.

"Nothing." I wince.

"Nothing?"

"There may have been a drunken kiss when I first got back, but it really was nothing."

"Does Jake know it's nothing?"

I wince some more. "He doesn't want it to be nothing."

"Have you thought about getting back together with him?"

"It's Jake. How could I not think about it?" When I moved home in July, everything felt so much the same. It was like stepping back into the life I would have had if I stuck around after graduation, if I'd told him yes.

It would be so easy to let go, to give in to my fate of a life spent in Forks.

But Edward is back now, proof that the last two years happened, reminding me that there is a great big world out beyond the Forks bubble.

And I still haven't seen nearly enough of it.

Although I thought I was exhausted before, I reach new levels of tired as I think about every little complication.

"Rain check on that drink?"

Jasper nods, giving me a one armed hug. "Hey, Jacob!" he bellows across the parking lot.

"Hey, Jazz," Jake bellows right back.

Fiddling with my hair, I make my way to my truck.

"Hi, Bella," he murmurs, reaching out to play with my scarf. "You look like such a hipster."

I smile at his gentle and familiar teasing. This was a running joke in college. He'd go home nearly every weekend but I fell in love with the coffee shops and the art scene and the culture in Seattle.

"And you look like a lumberjack," I reply.

He laughs at my typical response, slipping off the bed of my truck and onto his feet. When he hugs me I let it go on for a beat too long.

"Do you want to grab dinner?" he asks when I pull away.

I say yes because at school I am the teacher, knowing and in control, and at home I am the daughter, helping and loving and grateful, but with Jake I am just Bella. He's known me for twenty years so I say yes to dinner.

He drives my truck and we get to the diner, returning to the scene of the crime where I loudly and regrettably broke up with him over two years ago. He was badgering me to marry him and I freaked with the startling revelation that the life I'd always planned was not the one I wanted.

Funny, how I am right back here anyway.

We get some looks as we sit in a booth far from the one where I humiliated him last time we were here. People in this town don't forget anything, but Jake brought me back here anyway because the only other option is the Lodge and he knows the mounted animal heads on the walls make it hard for me to eat.

We order the exact same thing we always order. After safe topics – my work, his work, and the shit weather – are exhausted, he asks about Charlie.

"That bad, huh?" he says when he sees my face.

"No, he's okay but retirement isn't really sitting well. He is just… sad," I reply, trying to minimize the health issues and the booze issues. Charlie's sworn me to secrecy and so far I've kept his silence, even if I probably shouldn't.

"Well, he's been a cop his whole life and now his own heart is the reason he can't work. He's probably fucking bored."

"Yeah," I reply, even if the heart is only the half of it.

"Billy and I will have him come to the reservation for fishing and football," Jake offers.

"That'd be good. Thanks."

"You deserve a day to yourself."

Our food arrives and the conversation continues. He doesn't try to talk about us and I'm grateful. It gives me hope that he'll always be my friend. The whole thing is pleasant and Jacob makes me smile.

Halfway through my tuna melt a group of high schoolers stumble in, laughing and rough housing and enjoying their final few days of summer. I recognize several kids that popped into my classroom to pick up their syllabus. Tyler Crowley, Jessica Stanley, Mikey Newton, and Lauren Whatsherface are all juniors and seniors in my AP Lit class. They spot me and wave, whispering and giggling to each other. I wave back.

"Students of yours?" asks Jacob.

"Indeed they are. Some of them." It's a struggle not to stare at them and I won't let myself wonder what they are saying or thinking about me.

"Isn't that Mikey Newton?" Jake asks.

"It's Mike now, Jake. He's a grown up so it's Mike."

"You baby sat him, right?"

I nod. Jake laughs.

"This is fucking surreal," he says. "We're too old."

"Twenty-five, baby."

We high five but then my skin starts prickling. There are eyes on me and I glance around before I see Edward outside, loitering by the door, cigarette dangling from his hand. The expression on his face is mean and foreign to me.

Edward is usually so easy going and even his scowls lack heat, but the intensity of the hate he is now shooting at Jacob startles me.

He is looking at me now, his gaze only softening slightly. Edward takes a very deliberate drag of his cigarette, knowing that I hate it when he smokes. My wide-eyed, foolish gaping is too noticeable and Jacob turns around in his seat to eye Edward through the window.

"New kid?" he asks, turning back to me.

"Yes."

"Should you yell at him for smoking?"

"I can't." But I want to. "He's nineteen."

His birthday was two months ago and I typed out a very long email but didn't send it.

"Nineteen, huh?" says Jake, snickering. "You're teaching a super senior."

"No," I say, getting defensive. "No, he's on student exchange. He graduated in Argentina last year, but they can go in the program up to a year after. Gap year."

"Weird," comments Jacob.

I thoroughly agree.

Edward puts out the cigarette and enters the diner. I track his cocky bastard strut and frown when he slides into the booth next to Jessica Stanley, slinging an arm over her shoulder. She swoons and I know just how that feels because it is impossible not to swoon when confronted with that sharp jaw and the tanned skin and the green eyes and the messy copper hair.

Edward meets my eye. It is a challenge and I force myself to focus on Jacob, talking about Billy's auto shop and all those bookish new responsibilities that come with running the place.

"I just want to get my hands dirty, you know?" he says with a sigh.

"How's the Rabbit?" I ask.

Jacob grins and launches into a detailed account of every adjustment he's made these last two years on the car he's been restoring since high school. The subject gives me time to watch Edward while pretending not to watch Edward.

He makes the whole table laugh. This is nothing new. Only Mike Newton is not amused. I wonder if this has anything to do with Edward's arm around Jessica or the way she twirls her hair and touches his chest.

Edward glances at me every few seconds, making sure I catch the show.

I unwittingly catch the show.

"Uh huh," I say to Jake when he pauses to catch a breath, but I have no clue what he is actually saying because it is hard work, watching someone intently but pretending not to.

It is difficult to keep from rolling my eyes when Edward actually clucks Jessica's chin, talking low in her ear with that stupid hot mostly-British accent of his. I wonder if he's busted out the romance languages yet. I was always a sucker for that.

He smirks at me and I am reminded of how truly young he is. Growing up the way he did instilled a worldliness in him that can often be confused with maturity. And comparatively, he is rather mature for his age, but that doesn't stop him from shamelessly using Jessica Stanley to make me jealous.

South of the equator, these six years that separate us were nothing, but now I am the teacher to his student and he is shamelessly using Jessica Stanley to make me jealous. The gap of our ages seems to stretch even further as I pretend to not watch him because unlike Edward, I have no desire to make him jealous.

And I refuse to be jealous of a student with stupid hair.

After a brief argument, Jacob lets me buy him dinner. I also get a to go meal for Charlie, soup and salad replacing his typical steak.

I let Jake drive my truck – he missed it – back to the school where he left his motorcycle, but when we pull out of the parking lot Edward is back outside, smoking a cigarette.

He's too far away to tell for sure, but I feel his eyes following me until Jake turns at the stop sign, disappearing from view.

* * *

"So, three nights in a row, huh?" Rose says as I shut my bedroom door behind me. Her hair is full of curlers and she stands between me and the kitchen, where the snacks are.

I really need those snacks.

"Yeah," I reply, tugging on the hem of Edward's t-shirt to cover myself a little more. "Sorry. Ah, uh, did we, um, wake you? Or I guess it's night. So um, not wake you but, um, disturb you?"

She grins, stepping aside and moving into the living room to give me access to the kitchen. She sips her wine and won't stop grinning at me.

"I owe you," she says, shrugging. "I can do a few nights of going to sleep with my iPod on. You've had to play your iPod way more than me."

This is true. Rosalie certainly enjoys sex. When I first moved in she had a Chilean boyfriend. Their banging was nearly as loud as their fighting, and I wasn't all that unhappy when they broke up. Post breakup Rosa indulges in one night stands on the regular.

"He leaves tomorrow, right?" she asks as I rummage around for food.

"Yeah." I am way more upset about it than I should be. The plan was never to actually like the vacationing hottie, but there is something so compelling about Edward.

I may be new to this out of the box lifestyle of a world traveler, but everything is an adventure to Edward. With him I've seen more of the three cities – Viña del Mar, Valparaiso, and Reñaca – than I saw living here for nearly six months.

"Are you okay?" Rose asks as I pout. "I know you are not really one to do anything casually."

"I'm trying to be okay with casual," I say, turning from the fridge to the cabinets. "It's not like I have another choice. What, it's like a twelve, fifteen, twenty hour bus ride to Buenos Aries? He'll get on a bus in the morning and we'll be friends on Facebook. All we've got is casual."

"But you like him," says stupid Rose, sipping her stupid wine.

"He's very good at, you know, the sex bits."

Rosalie laughs. "But you still like him."

"Unfortunately," I finally agree.

Rosalie gives me a sad smile, stopping to drop a kiss on my cheek on her way to her room.

"I'm going out with Angela," she says. "Don't wait up."

When I get to my own room, Edward is not where I left him, lounging on my narrow bed. I frown because there is really nowhere to hide in this cramped space. The door slams behind me and I jump in surprise when arms come around my waist.

"Edward!" I scold, trying not to giggle as he nibbles on my neck. "I almost dropped the snacks!"

"Not the snacks!" He walks me to the bed. "Anything but the snacks!"

We get settled. I lean against the pillows, my feet in Edward's lap. He sits sideways, slumped down against the wall with his legs dangling off the side of the bed. Edward eats dulce de leche with a spoon. I drink this strange caramel flavored milk out of a box that's been my addition since moving to Chile.

The silence is pleasant and Edward absently rubs my foot.

After only a few days together I am shockingly comfortable with him. There is an ease here that I never found with Jake, even after six years together and a decade of friendship before that.

There are no expectations here, no source of stress, and although I'd like him to stick around at least through Christmas break to entertain me with adventures and orgasms, there is no pressure here.

Near the end there, my relationship with Jake was all pressure – to get married, to buy a house, to be grown up in a grown up relationship – and I buckled.

"You like me," Edward announces.

Slurping, I finish off my little box of milk just like a little kid.

"Eavesdropper," I say, kicking playfully at his thigh. "That's why you were hiding next to the door."

"Guilty," he replies, palms up, trying to look innocent. He is smiling that crooked grin that is so very infectious. "And I'm very good at the sex bits."

With a groan I hide my blush in my hands.

"You're rather brilliant yourself, love," he murmurs.

Something about his soft tone gives me the courage to look up and when I do I am met with a similarly soft expression.

"Christmas is in a week," he says. The subject change is abrupt and his hands find my feet again. "What are your plans?"

"My terrible boss is having us over to her huge family thing. I'll probably drink my weight in pisco sours to ward off the homesickness."

"That's awful," Edwards says, grimacing. "Seriously, some of the most depressing shit I've had the displeasure to hear."

I sigh, totally agreeing with his harsh assessment. "Well, a plane ticket home is like two thousand dollars, so here I will stay."

Edward blinks as if surprised to hear I can't afford to drop two grand for three weeks in Washington. I remember that Edward's family is the Acosta in Acosta Agricultura, and that his dad is some sort of crazy famous English lord/diplomat.

I do not have all the details. Edward is not particularly interested in sharing details.

"Is a bus ticket in your price range?" he asks.

"How much is this bus ticket?"

"Dunno. Maybe, eighty dollars? US dollars."

"I could swing it," I reply, baffled by this conversation. "Why would I buy this bus ticket? And where would I be going for eighty bucks?"

"Why?" he answers. "Because you like me and your plans for the holiday are beyond depressing and you aren't quite done with me yet. The where is Mercedes by way of Buenos Aries."

I drop my single serving box of flavored milk into my lap.

"You live in Argentina. You live in Mercedes, Argentina," I inform him as if he is unaware.

"Indeed I do," he replies.

Pulling my feet from Edward's lap, I sit up straighter, getting as far away from him as possible. His touch turns me into a pile of goo, making thought impossible, and I need my brain to understand what he's saying.

"What are you saying?" I ask because my brain needs a little clarification to achieve said understanding.

"Come to my place for Christmas," he says as if it is that simple. As if it is that easy.

"Your place?"

"Well, my family's place. My mom won't mind. With all the uncles and aunts and cousins running around, she'll barely notice you. Plus, she likes Americans. She did uni stateside." He is excited now, bouncing in his seat and grinning like a goofy little kid. "We can do a few days in BA for the new year. There will be eating and drinking and my large, loud Argentine family. You will be surrounded by Spanish and I can translate. It'll be wonderful."

And it sounds wonderful because I miss my own loud family (small as it may be) and the thought of spending the holiday with my boss is truly horrible.

Plus Argentina.

Argentina!

Rose has a thousand stories of meeting people and bumming around together. This is one of those opportunities to be a part of a real family Christmas in a whole new culture. I have a few reservations about traveling to a different country with a guy I just met four days ago, but at this point we've logged nearly a hundred hours together.

And I trust him.

Plus, I Googled him on day two just to see if he is who he says it is.

"I wouldn't want to impose," I finally reply.

Edward rolls his eyes. "Bella, come on. There would be no imposing. None at all."

"Do your parents even know I exist?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. "Have you told them about me?"

"No."

This makes me cranky and I know I am being ridiculous.

"Jesus, Bella." He rolls out of bed, digging through his duffle. After our second night together I gave up all pretense and had him move his stuff from the hotel where he stayed two nights with his three friends before he met me.

He emerges with an iPhone and he rolls his eyes at me as he makes his call.

"Hola, Mum," he says. The word "mum" sounds strange now that he's switched to Spanish. He talks quickly and laughs before squeezing back onto the bed with me. We sit shoulder to shoulder and Edward indicates with his hand that his mother won't stop talking. His hand is a blathering mouth and I giggle.

"Mum—"He huffs as she continues. "Si, Madre—"I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Oi, _Esme_!"

Apparently she is finally quiet, but Edward is forced to pause for a moment as he hushes my giggles.

"I called to ask you a question… I know you don't like English, but I am with a friend who speaks no Spanish and this is getting a bit rude… She wants to learn but she is genuinely crap at it."

I am shocked to see Edward's ears turn red as he listens to his mother's reply.

"Enough Mum. I'll put you on speaker, yeah? Just behave yourself."

He touches a button and holds the phone between us.

"Mum, say hello to Bella."

"Hello, Bella!" She is basically screaming into the phone. Once more I try not to laugh.

"Mum!" Edward yells right back. He seems more embarrassed than is reasonable. "There's really no need to yell."

"I'm not yelling. Who is yelling?" Her English is flawless and her accent is so slight I wouldn't hear it at all if I wasn't paying attention.

"Just speak normally," Edward says, shooting me a rueful smile. "We can both hear you just fine."

"Then let the poor girl say hello, Edward," she says, her volume slightly too loud, but a large improvement from her original greeting."

"Hello, Mrs. Cullen. This is Bella."

"No, no. No, Mrs. Cullen. You will call me Esme. Or Esmeralda. Which ever you prefer. Actually, no. Esme. I loathe Esmeralda. I don't know why I suggested that."

"Okay, Esme." I like the woman already. "It's nice to meet you. Sort of meet you, anyway."

It's strange to be speaking to Edward's mother while sitting on sheets that reek of sex.

Also this international call must cost a small fortune.

"Oh, you sound lovely. Tell me, mi amorsito, is she lovely?"

I blush.

"Mum, behave."

"Answer my question."

"Yes, Mum." I blush harder. "She's lovely." Edward's ears are bright red and I lay my head on his shoulder. "She's also all alone in Reñaca for the holiday."

"Oh, no. Bring her here. It is just a little bus ride away," she says immediately. As I gape down at his phone Edward smirks, clearly amused by my shock.

"I told her you'd say that," Edward replies. "She doesn't want to impose."

"Well, she is polite to ask. You are polite to ask, Bella, but there is no imposition. She can sleep in the pool house."

"_Pool house?_" I mouth to Edward.

"With your father absent it will be nice to have another person in the house. Yes," Esme continues. Edward is scowling and I want to ask, but this thing is not serious and I have no reason to pry. "Have you ever visited Argentina, Bella?" she asks.

"No," I reply. "Before I came to Chile I'd never left the states," I confess, feeling extremely uncultured.

"Excellent. It is settled. You will come for Christmas. Edward will show you the sights, yes?"

"Um," I say. But I am out of reasons to hesitate. "Yes."

* * *

**Aw, I have the best readers. You are all so wonderful. Thank you for reading and reviewing.**

**And have some patience with Bella.**

**See you soon!**


	4. Something Good

**Chapter 4: Something Good**

By the time I part ways with Jacob in the high school parking lot the late summer sky is just beginning to get dark and on my drive home I start to worry about Charlie. When Jake ambushed me at the school I let my dad know that I'd be later than I thought but he never responded to my text.

My dread grows, mile by mile, and when I finally push through the front door I'm convinced he's had another heart attack, this one fatal.

"Dad?" I call out. There are no lights, save for the glow of the TV from the living room. I rush to the couch, peeking over the edge, relieved for only a second to see the steady rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps.

The scenario before me is much more expected and although I am glad he's not dead, it takes me a moment to collect myself as I am over come with waves of disappointment and fear.

There is a memory – blurry but still in my head – of Charlie at the Fourth of July celebration in the park. Renee was gone and I was six, staring at my swaying, slurring, aggressive father and feeling as though I'd lost both my parents because the man before me was certainly not my kindly daddy who bought me ice cream and tickled my face with his goofy mustache when he kissed me goodnight. This man was mean and it scared me. A few of Charlie's fellow deputies took him away. I slept over at the Black's with Jacob and his sisters.

There was no alcohol in the house for a long time after that, but when I survey the living room to see my passed out father, it is obvious that something changed.

The empty beer cans surrounding him became the norm when I was in Chile, apparently.

The bottle of whiskey is new though, and suddenly I feel so guilty for getting dinner with Jacob instead of coming right home after work.

Gathering the cans, I add them to the others in the recycling can. I turn off the TV that's playing some bizarre vampire show and I put Charlie's dinner in the fridge. The remaining whiskey gets dumped down the drain and I place the bottle on the kitchen table like a morbid centerpiece. I cover Charlie with a blanket and haul myself upstairs to my childhood bedroom with the stupid, finger-painted wardrobe.

Flopping face first onto my bed, I don't move for a long time save for the sobbing.

* * *

The tears have stopped but I have yet summoned the energy to get up and do preparing for bed things when a large thump against my window has me scrambling up and towards the noise.

There is someone in my tree, struggling on a branch, shaking up all those leaves.

"Shit!" The expletive is delivered in an elegant, mostly English accent and I slide open the window.

Edward nearly tumbles out of the tree and I reach out to haul him through the window. He goes down to the floor like a sack of potatoes and I giggle.

"Oi!" he says, lurching to his feet. "Don't you laugh, woman."

I bite my lip and try to look apologetic. There are twigs in his hair. I reach up to pick them out without thinking it through. Edward sighs when I drop my hand.

"You are not going to yell?" he asks, wary.

"I'm tired of yelling at you," I confess.

"There will be no 'but my father sleeps in the other room, how dare you come here,' type yelling?"

I shake my head. A goddamn marching band couldn't wake Charlie.

Maybe I should be mad, but I just can't summon the energy tonight, not after everything with my dad and how much I missed the boy standing before me.

"You aren't mad about my spying? Trying to catch you with your behemoth boyfriend?"

"You are a terrible spy," I say. "And I don't have a boyfriend."

Smirking, Edward steps into my personal space. Those smooth palms of his that have touched every part of me come to rest on my hips. "You could easily have a boyfriend, love."

Rolling my eyes, I put a fist against his chest to prevent him from getting any closer, caressing him only a little bit with my thumb.

"It's not that simple," I murmur.

He sighs. "You are not taking this for the grand, romantic gesture it is. I'm braving an extra year of high school for you, Isabella. The horror. The horror."

I take a step back, away from his hands.

"That's kind of the problem," I reply.

"Look," he says, hands fisting in his shaggy bronze hair. It means that he's frustrated. "This student exchange thing is the only way I could get here. It's not like Sir Carlisle would've just let me take a year off to pop in on you!"

"How did you sell this to your dad, anyway?"

Carlisle Cullen is not known for his flexibility. Since birth Edward's been groomed to follow in the lord's footsteps, culminating in an Oxford education and a successful career doing something diplomatic and lordly. It's a miracle that Edward is here at all, delaying his father's grand plan.

Plus, the dude really doesn't like me and my working class background. Not at all.

"Some shit about it looking good on a resume and learning about American culture. Plus, my cousin is in Seattle, working for a politician, and I must shadow her several times or something. I pitched the internship idea but he has this ridiculous idea that if I stop going to school I will never go back."

"Well, that's not exactly a stretch."

"It was really quite difficult. And I don't even get one little kiss for my efforts?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. Again. "Go home, Edward. It's past your bed time."

He gets huffy immediately. "You are treating me like a child!" he says.

"You're making me treat you like a child!" I reply. My words sounds a bit childish themselves, but I press on. "Look, that whole thing where you were trying to make me jealous? Childish. And fine, okay. My reaction when you first showed up wasn't exactly grown up, but you are enrolled as a student at the school where I work. You are registered for one of my classes. I have to treat you like a child, a _student_ because you're my freaking student."

Edward sighs, leaning against my stupid finger-painted dresser. His hands are back in his hair and I can't look at his face. I've only seen Edward unhappy and serious twice – when I told him I was moving home, when I met his dad – and if I see that tortured look now I will never be able to get through this conversation.

"I thought you'd be pleased to see me." His voice is small and I hate myself for being his first heartbreak.

"I am," I say, unable to lie about this. "But how could you possibly think that this situation could work?"

"Ever hopeful, I suppose."

"If this is all about me then you should go. You shouldn't waste your time in nowhere Forks because I just _can't_."

Edward looks at me, a bit of that spark returning to his gaze now.

"I'm quite fond of nowhere, Forks," he replies.

"Really?" I ask, having no concept of how this could be true.

"It's quiet," he says, shrugging. "And it helps me understand you."

I absolutely do not know what that means.

"Edward, what else? This is the only way Carlisle would give you a year before college, fine. But why do you want a year?"

"I want to be where you are."

His words are flattering. More than that I find his sentiment deeply touching. The years and miles separating us are indomitable to me, but from the start he's been so sure about what he wants. He is too young to know what he wants, but here he is in my hometown, steady and sure. Maybe he is wrong to be so optimistic. Maybe I am wrong to be so pragmatic.

I want him here and I hate him a bit for putting me in this situation.

"Edward, it can't be about me. You are a student. Nothing can happen," I murmur.

He shuffles his feet. "I can't stay unless I'm a student. Carlisle doesn't believe in taking a year off and I need a year off. This is as close as I'm going to get."

I bite my lip to keep myself from suggesting he tell his totally intimidating and powerful father to fuck off. It's pretty hypercritical, given my whole mess with Charlie.

"I'm not ready to be anywhere for four whole years. You know me. Four years. One school. One country!"

"The horror. The horror," I drawl.

"Look," he says, getting in my space once more. "This is where I want to be so I won't leave unless you tell me you don't want me here."

"Nothing can happen," I repeat. I can't lie. I can't say that I don't want him here. "Not while you go to Forks High."

He just grins like he doesn't believe me.

"You can't push this, Edward," I insist.

"I will push nothing, Ms. Swan." He is still smiling, mischievous and happy.

"Please," I say, desperate.

Edward closes the distance between us, placing a hand on each of my shoulders and messaging away the tension held there.

"Bella." The way his voice caresses the syllables of my name makes me shiver. "I will not do anything to get you in trouble. Do not stress unduly."

When he uses words like unduly I forget that he is six years my junior.

"Promise?"

"Promise," he says. "I suggest we hug now. A nice friendly hug. Since this is the first time I've really seen you in months."

"Okay." No, not okay. But Edward is really here and I need something good to happen, just for one moment. I melt into his chest, looping my arms around his waist and reveling in the familiar feel of his arms around my neck. It is warm and safe here, and I am calm for the first time since he sauntered into my classroom this afternoon.

Under different circumstances this is how I would have greeted him because I've missed him so much, missed his lightness and sanguinity.

If I had any shred of strength where this boy is concerned, I would look him in the eyes and tell him to go. I would tell him that I do not want him in my town and I would mean it.

There is no happy ending to be had here, not with Edward as my student and him off to England next year, but I can't find it in me to tell him that I don't want him in Forks.

I always want him with me, even if I shouldn't. Like right now, I should not be clinging to him.

"Are you alright, Bella?" he murmurs. His hands find my face and he studies me intently, even as I keep my arms around him. Those damnably perceptive eyes narrow and I know he sees my exhaustion, made worse by my red eyes, proof of my crying jag. "Beyond everything with me, I know you didn't want to move back here. Are you alright?"

I think about my dad passed out on the couch downstairs and the resentment and fear that simmers in me because of him. I think about how my tiny hometown feels even smaller now that I'm trapped in it once more. I think about my best friend who might still want to marry me and the boy standing in front of me who I absolutely cannot have.

"I'm fine," I say, hiding my face in his neck. "Just tired."

He doesn't believe me, but he returns the hug without comment

I give him a final squeeze before reluctantly stepping back and letting go. Edward pouts and I suppress the urge to take that bottom lip between my teeth.

"I missed you," I confess, shoving him away. "Now get out."

His laughter trickles up through my window as he scrambles down the tree. Sleep comes easier than I anticipated.

* * *

Edward's family is huge and loud and rich.

His mother is wonderful. She lives in Mercedes, an old colonial settlement complete with a trio of cathedrals that stand as a testament to the town's history, in what can only be described as a compound. The home has two wings, as in east and west. There is a courtyard, a pool, and the promised pool house that is nearly as big as the house I shared with Charlie for the majority of my life.

For two nights Edward sneaks in and we get no sleep.

Edward's father is apparently a big deal British diplomat and his absence is glaring. I don't ask. It seems like a sore subject and Edward is not my boyfriend so I don't ask.

Attending midnight service at the largest church in town makes me nervous. Charlie was never one for religion so I've only been to a handful of services in my life, but the cathedral is beautiful with its old stone, stain glass, and candlelight. The ceiling is vaulted. The floor is a complicated pattern of marble. It seems like a place one could expect to encounter in Europe, in Rome, but the service is in Spanish. I don't understand a word besides _Jesus_ _Christos_, but the place still feels sacred to me and I'm glad to be here.

Plus, my presence seems to delight Esme. Not that I'm trying to make Edward's mother happy. It's not like we are in a relationship.

In the morning we drive to the country bearing empanadas. I though Mercedes was pretty country, just as I thought Esme's home to be huge, but we arrive at the ranch owned by Edward's family and the terms country and huge get redefined.

It feels a bit like stepping back in time to the American West and I look everywhere at once – cattle, horses, crops – before settling my eyes on another compound. It is more like a small town than a home, and there are plenty of people milling around to fill it.

On the drive here we passed factories, a slaughter house, and metal silos that mark the industrial, money making side of Edward's family business, but here at their personal ranch they've kept things idyllic and dreamy.

We get out of the car and I meet everyone. It's unbearably awkward. I do not speak the language. This is an extreme faux pas, but eventually Edward's family comes to accept my gawking, silent presence and I am no longer so much of a spectacle.

I drink wine and watch Edward play football – soccer – with a gaggle of children.

"Hello."

I tear my gaze away from shirtless Edward as two girls approach. They were introduced as Edward's cousins, but I can't recall their names after meeting so many people.

"Hola," I reply.

"You American, sí?"

"Sí," I reply.

"We practice English speak, yes?"

"Yes," I say, smiling. This I am comfortable with. This I do everyday.

The older girl is nearly fluent and could easily get there with only a week or two in an English speaking country, but she patiently waits as I go through the basics with the younger, less proficient girl.

"Hello, my name is Marta. It is nice to see you. I like your shirt of green. Yes?" She is hopeful and proud of her strung together sentence. I would peg her for around fifteen and her proficiency makes my inability to string together a sentence in Spanish even more embarrassing.

"Very good," I reply. "My name is Bella. This is my green shirt."

"Green shirt," repeats the girl. "Green shirt."

"Yes," I say. "How are you today?"

"I am very well. Thank you. And you?"

"I am happy to celebrate Christmas with your family."

"Sí, sí," says Marta, grinning. "I have thirteen years. How old are you?"

"I am twenty-three years old," I reply.

"Wait, wait," says the older girl, taking a step closer. "You are twenty-three?"

"Yeah," I say, nodding. Her surprise surprises me. "I graduated college last May."

"College? Like American college? University?"

I nod again, suddenly very nervous.

The older girl whose name I can't remember searches my face before apparently deciding that I'm not lying and abruptly bursting out into giggles. Marta asks a question in rapid fire Spanish and then starts laughing herself when the older girl answers.

I want to know what they are discussing, but dread the answer at the same time.

"You like them young, huh?" says the older girl through her giggles.

"What?"

"Leave it to Edward to charm the older women."

"What!" I screech, really alarmed now.

"You are older than Edward," she replies, speaking slowly like I am an idiot.

And if what she is saying is true, I am definitely an idiot.

"Not that much older," I say, my stomach churning as I realize that I have no idea how old Edward is. In all the hours we've spent together this specific topic never came up. "I mean, he's in college."

They laugh again.

"Bella," says the girl, patting me on the shoulder and trying not to laugh. "Edward is seventeen."

* * *

"What are you doing?"

The voice comes from the open door to the bedroom in the pool house. I don't turn around.

"I'd think that would be obvious," I say, the word barely making it past my clenched jaw. I'm giving myself a headache, but I can't manage to relax.

Probably because I've been banging a seventeen year old.

The thought has my stomach rolling and my manic folding gets sloppy.

"It appears to me as if you are packing, but, that makes no sense what so ever as we are here for three more days before we head to Buenos Aires. "

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I snap, moving to the bathroom to collect my toiletries. Edward follows me like a shadow. "Except the bus station. I need to get back to Reñaca."

"What?" he asks, filling up the doorway. "It's Christmas. Things have been lovely, although you were oddly quiet on the drive home. Did some one upset you? My family is a bit much, I admit, but I truly thought you and my mother were getting on. Did someone say something upsetting?"

I glare up at him, elbowing my way past him into the bedroom.

"Just the truth," I say.

Edward is gaping, tugging on his hair. My traitorous body notices how adorable he is in his confusion and it perks up accordingly.

_Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen._

"Truth?" he asks.

For the first time I see his youth, the awkward angles of his elbows and the slight roundness in his cheeks. And most of all his tone of voice screams insecure seventeen year old.

"You said you were in college!" I hiss.

"Ah." He immediately understands and blushes, dropping his gaze to his toes. "That."

"Yes! _That_."

I teach seventeen year olds. This is so extremely creepy. I am in dire need of a scalding hot shower to burn away all the creepy.

"I believe I said school," he says. "And I am in school. No lie there. You assumed a higher level of education, I believe."

"You're seventeen!" I shriek.

The intensity of my reply startles Edward and I glance around as if one of my father's deputies is going to jump out and arrest me for sleeping with a minor.

"Oh my god," I mutter into my hands. "This is statutory rape."

"Oi!" Edward shouts, glaring at me. "Firstly, we have broken no Argentine laws, and secondly, calling me a rape victim is blatantly disrespectful to actual rape victims."

I blink because he's actually making a strong point.

"So is it the lying or the age?" he asks.

"Both." Although he didn't truly lie and it's partially my fault for failing to even ask his age. "But you are seventeen, Edward. Seventeen! I teach seventeen year olds! My students are seventeen."

"So mostly the age," he mutters.

I deflate slightly, my anger morphing into melancholy. Edward is fun and sharp and unpredictable. He is the adventure I wanted when I broke up with Jake and turned down the job at Forks High.

But he is also six years my junior, just like my students.

"I can't," I mutter, pouting.

Edward smiles ruefully and pokes the corner of my lips with his finger, coaxing a begrudging smile.

"Okay," he says. "You can't sleep with me. I'm not thrilled about it, but okay."

I frown again, surprised by his lack of fight.

"But," he continues, trying and failing to look innocent. "You can be my friend, yeah? And I see no reason for you to miss out on experiencing BA with a professional just because you no longer feel comfortable bringing me to bed for truly ludicrous and unfathomable reasons."

"What are you saying?"

"Stay."

And I am tempted. Edward has already proved an excellent travel companion in a part of the world where he had never before visited. Buenos Aries is a city that Edward knows intimately and passing up that kind of opportunity because he is seventeen feels wrong.

When I first moved in with Rose I asked her for some advice on how to get the most out of the living abroad experience. "Say yes to everything," she replied. "Even if it is out of your comfort zone. _Especially_ if it's out of your comfort zone. Say yes to everything."

I take a big breath, studying Edward's young, pleading, beautiful face.

"Yes," I say.

* * *

I last six days.

It is a very good six days during which time I am ushered to an endless parade of museums and cafés, local haunts and tourist attractions, bars and dance clubs. I discover a love of Argentine beef and fernet, a type of alcohol I swear tastes like mint although Edward says I'm wrong. We visit a botanical garden and I become highly jealous of Evita Perón's wardrobe as I ogle her dresses at the museum devoted to the controversial figure.

It's the best sort of exhausting and I love every minute.

For New Years Eve I find myself on a rooftop party featuring a stunning view of the city with the river beyond and a live reggaeton band. The roof is decorated in thousands of white lights and I don't recall ever enjoying myself quite this much.

So at midnight when Edward goes to kiss my cheek, I tilt my head to catch his lips instead. I tug at his hair and kiss him with all the desire I've been ignoring for the last six days.

I say yes to everything because this boy is once in a lifetime and when I get on the bus back to Chile, I will never see him again.

* * *

**So I have the best beta (Donna). ****And the best readers (YOU!).**

**The response to this story is knocking my socks off. Thanks for reading, reviewing, following, the whole thing. And it sounds like a lot of you are out there recing and that's just amazing!**

**Oh! And all this Chile/Argentina stuff comes from the weeks I spent south of the equator a couple years ago. I'm going to start posting pictures over on my tumblr if anyone is interested. **

**Happy Friday, people! And most important of all... _GO BRONCOS!_**


	5. Little Interest in Easy

**Chapter 5: Little Interest in Easy**

The cafeteria is exactly the same as it was when I graduated eight years ago, down to the peeling paint job and the configuration of the circular tables that fold up for easy storage.

It is relatively quiet now, save for the whispered giggles of a group of freshmen boys seated as far from my table as possible. I look at them with disapproval until they turn back to their math books.

There are only twenty-six students in my third period study hall and nearly all of them are freshmen and sophomores. The older students organize their schedules to shorten their day, taking study hall first or last period and then skipping it entirely. Some choose a long lunch.

It's only the first week of school, but so far this group is rather well behaved and I think I'll be able to use this period to plan. Except instead of planning I'm currently staring at Edward's name on the roster for my AP lit class as if I can burn him from the paper with the force of my gaze alone.

The last three days of class have been so fucking hard, mostly because teaching is fucking hard but also because Edward is in my fourth period AP lit class.

So far he's been remarkably well behaved, but his presence alone is enough to have me flustered. It's so hard to fake my way through an hour as a teacher when Edward is in the back, knowing me the way he does.

He's seen me naked. He's the best I've ever had or can even imagine having. He taught me how to be adventurous and I've spent these last months aching for him even as I tried to resolve myself to the fact that I wouldn't see him again.

But now his name is on a roster with my other students and he sits in the back and he's seen me naked.

"This seat taken?"

I nearly tumble out of my own chair as Edward smirks down at me. I hastily cover the roster with a stack of ungraded warm ups, irrationally worried that he'll somehow be able to read my mind if he catches me trying to burn his name from the paper with my eyes.

"Um." I clear my throat. "No. I suppose it's not, although, it really is reserved for my study hall students. In case they need help on anything. I mean, I know it's only the first week so people don't have a lot of things they need help on yet, but they might. So, yes that is what this seat is for."

This blathering does nothing to make me sound like a real teacher.

"What are you doing?" I sputter as he takes the seat at my side.

"I'm one of your study hall students."

I hate the way his grin makes me melt and I blush slightly as I flip through my roster for this period.

"No, you're not," I say, pointing to where Edward's name would be, after Maggie Carter and before Gary Dickenson.

"Yes, I am."

He brandishes a sheet of paper around his head and I snatch it away. It's a copy of Edward's schedule, complete with today's date and the messy scrawl of a guidance counselor.

"You are taking honors anatomy fourth period?" I ask.

It is the best thing to happen since Edward showed up, but it still hurts. He is abandoning my AP lit class because he thinks I am a terrible teacher and he hates it.

This may be an irrational thought.

"You should thank me," he says, leaning back until his chair tilts onto two legs. "This is a great sacrifice on my part. Your class was by far the most intriguing thing about this school."

"Really?" I light up like a goddamn Christmas tree for a moment before managing to school my features into a politely curious expression. Edward chuckles.

"Really," he replies. "But you were uncomfortable." He glances around and drops his voice to a whisper. "And I'd rather you not see me as your student."

"You are still my student," I say, gesturing to his schedule.

"Study hall doesn't count. You don't keep marks. You don't even do attendance."

I silently agree with him and while I mostly am relieved that he isn't in my real class anymore, an extremely stupid part of me will miss him. Edward is brilliant and I have no doubt that he would bring a unique perspective to our discussions.

"I'm still going to do all that work for your class," he declares.

"Are you? Why?"

"It's quite the book list you've got there, Miss Swan. I'm going to write the papers, too."

"You really don't have to, Edward."

"I want to."

My face gets hot. A subject change is in order.

"So who is your host family?" I ask, keeping my voice quiet as I sweep the cafeteria, checking on the mostly behaving students.

"The Stanley's. They're cool, I suppose."

Oh, I really don't like that. "Ah, I see."

"Very hands on parent types. I have a bloody curfew. And I think they were looking forward to teaching some poor, ignorant foreigner the language. My worldliness disappoints them."

I laugh despite myself.

"They seem decent enough," he says, shrugging. "Although Jessica is a bit much. Last Saturday she forgot I was living there and she came down with no make up for breakfast, got a look at me, screamed, and ran back to her bedroom. Apparently, she does not like to be seen without all that junk." He scrunches his brow and waves his hand around his face,

"You don't care about make-up," I mutter.

Edward laughs. "Tell Jessica Stanley that why don't you. It is going to be a very long year if she feels the need to be primed and perfect whenever I am in the general vicinity."

"No, I don't think I will."

Edward chuckles again. I do not like this conversation.

"Don't fret, Miss Swan."

"Nope," I say, because this is getting dangerous. "New subject. School subject, if you are going to sit in the spot reserved for students who need assistance."

"I don't often require assistance with school work."

"I know, Edward. Yet here you are, doing another year of high school."

"So, how's your first week been?" he asks.

"Fine," I say, trying to mean it. I want to cry on his shoulder and tell him that I'm drowning, but I can't.

"Fine," he repeats. From the way he's squinting at me, it's pretty obvious that he knows that I'm struggling without me saying the words.

A bell rings and the moment is over. The cafeteria gets loud as all my students talk and laugh and gather their things.

"Seriously, Miss Swan," Edward says, standing. "Email me the assignments. Please?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

There is a spring in his step as he leaves and I absolutely do not stare at his ass.

* * *

In fourth period AP English, I feel like a real teacher for the first time this week. Still, every few minutes I find myself glancing at the now empty chair in the back of my classroom, wondering what a certain insightful nineteen year old would think of my lesson.

* * *

"Beer?"

I jump, nearly falling off the log where I've been perched for the last few minutes, watching the waves. Jake's voice is nearly as familiar to me as this beach, but I was so lost in my head it startled me anyway.

"Thanks." I take the bottle and slide over on my log, making room for the huge frame of my former boyfriend. In the two years I was south of the equator he somehow managed to get even broader and next to him I feel small.

He doesn't say anything to disturb my peace for a few minutes, and I'm grateful.

The soothing rumble of the waves nearly drown out the sounds of the crowd gathered a hundred or so feet away at edge of the trees. People I've known my whole life sit at a picnic table laughing, grilling, drinking and waiting for the sun to set to start up the bonfire. We may all be a little bit older and the alcohol we consume is done so legally, but it is still an evening like so many others.

I'm happy to be here with them, but, I just needed a moment.

"So one week in," Jacobs says.

I sip my beer and nod.

"How was it?"

"It could have been worse," I reply.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Still, I'm exhausted."

"Each week will get less exhausting," he says. "I hope."

"Thanks, Jake," I say with a laugh. "That's encouraging."

"So did you meet some one? In Chile?"

The abrupt question startles me even more than his sudden appearance next to my log, and I choke on my beer, coughing and sputtering and turning bright red. Jake pats my back and it takes me a minute to get myself together.

"What?" I ask when speech becomes physically possible once more.

"Will you promise not to drown in beer if I ask again?" he asks, bumping his shoulder into mine. There is something off about his smile, like he doesn't really want to hear my answer.

"Do you really want to know?" I ask. This whole thing is making my stomach hurt.

"I think I need to, you know?"

No, I don't know but I nod along anyway like I do. "Okay. Yeah."

"Yeah? That's it? Yeah? No details?"

"Details? Jake, come on. You don't want details. I met someone. We were together. And now we are not." I can't look at him. There is no comfort to be found in the grey waves either, but staring at the ocean is the only option in this moment.

"You're not anymore?"

I hesitate, thinking of Edward and his smile and his insistence on completing all the assignments for my class despite no longer being enrolled in AP English.

"No," I murmur. "I'm not anymore."

"Me too."

I turn to look at him, confused by this statement. Now Jake is the one that can't look at me. Instead he buries his feet in the sand.

"You too?" I ask.

"I was with someone. And now I'm not."

"Okay." And I don't know how I feel about this information. I am slightly jealous in some strange, this-is-Jake, this-is-_my_-Jake, way. But mostly I wish he was still with this mysterious other person because then I could get my best friend back without feeling so guilty.

"Were you serious? About this guy?" Jake asks.

My smile is rueful. All I felt (feel) for Edward was (is) undoubtedly serious but we could never really be together, not the way Jake and I were together, not with countries and years between us.

I finish my beer and dig it a little hole in the sand.

"It was complicated," I say. It's a shitty answer but all I've got at the moment.

"I thought it was uncomplicated, with me and this girl."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"You came back."

"Fuck." I groan, hiding my face in my hands. It is nice and dark here against my hands. Maybe I'll stay here forever.

As if my move back to Forks didn't suck enough all ready. Now I've inadvertently complicated Jacob's new uncomplicated relationship.

"It's never going to happen for us, huh?" he asks.

The question is so quiet and so unexpected I am inspired to peek out at my ex-boyfriend through my fingers.

He looks sad. The last thing I ever wanted to do was put that look on his face, but at least he doesn't appear near as hurt as he did when I shocked us both by breaking up with him. Now he is resigned and melancholy rather than blind-sided and angry.

"No," I say. "It's never going to happen for us. I am sorry, Jake."

"I know."

"And I'm not just saying it to say it, but I really hope we can figure out how to stay friends."

Jake smiles, finally looking like the boy I've known and loved my whole life. "I know that, too. We'll be okay."

"Yeah?" I ask, perking right up.

"Of course, Bells. I've known you my whole life. And I'm planning on knowing you for the rest of it, too, even if it is in a totally different way than I thought."

I am pounds and pounds lighter. Fuck, it would all be so much easier if I could just figure out how to live my life with Jake and be happy all at once.

But I decided years ago that I have little interest in easy.

"Ah, what the hell, Bella? Are you crying?" he demands.

Grinning like a loon, I wipe my cheeks dry. "Only a little bit."

Jacob rolls his eyes and I feel something within me, that hasn't been quite right since I broke up with him, shift back into place. I abruptly lean over and kiss his cheek.

"Gross!" But his smile is as wide as my own.

"I hope you'll be able to un-complicate things with this girl," I say. "Do you think you can?"

The lightness of the moment is gone as Jacob immediately sobers. He shrugs.

"I hope you can," I murmur.

Because uncomplicated certainly isn't in the cards for me and I only want good things for my best friend.

* * *

"Jesus, fuck, you are smiley," declares Rosalie, dumping a stack of folders on her side of the table that dominates our shared office.

"You really shouldn't curse like that," I say without even removing my eyes from my laptop screen. "We're at school."

"It's fucking after hours. I'll fucking do what I want. You certainly are."

"What?" I ask, blinking at her. Edward's unreasonable and hilarious ranting against Robert Bolaño is distracting me.

"Are you or are you not currently instant messaging with your boy toy?" she asks, hands on her hips.

"We are just friends, Rosalie." My words lack conviction. Rose notices, if her answering snort is any indication. "I'm serious! I haven't even seen him since New Years."

"How much sex did you have with him?"

I wince, thinking back to my laughable resolve to no longer sleep with him.

"We'll probably never see each other again," I say, pouting only a little bit.

"It's been two months and you still talk to him practically everyday," Rosalie replies, waving an accusatory finger at me. "Why are you still denying it?"

"Because he's seventeen!" I slouch down in my chair, hiding my face in my hands. It's so very easy to forget his age, but when I do inevitably remember it always leaves me feeling sick and miserable.

"He's fucking seventeen," Rose repeats, sinking into her chair directly across from mine. She clutches her heart and grimaces. "I'm still not over the shock."

"I know right?"

"He's way too hot to be seventeen."

"I know, right?"

My computer pings again and I give Rose a rueful smile as I go back to my conversation.

EC: bella? you still there? i was moments away from unveiling my master plan for your next break

IMS: Oh yeah? Let's here it, then.

EC: WINE COUNTRY

IMS: ?

EC: when are you on break?

IMS: 26th – 30th

IMS: Why?

EC: ME TOO! that's handy

IMS: Really? That's _**really**_ your spring break?

EC: don't worry about it.

IMS: Edward… You really shouldn't skip school.

EC: don't get all teachery on me, swan! WINE COUNTRY awaits!

IMS: Like, Napa?

EC: Napa? What? *mutters* _Americans_

EC: Mendoza!

IMS: Is that my country or yours?

EC: mine

EC: we passed through it going to BA for Christmas

IMS: Ooooohhhhhh

EC: WINE COUNTRY

EC: you love wine.

EC: please, please meet me?

I bite my lip and stare at Rosalie. It doesn't take her long to notice.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" she asks, brushing at the nothing on her chin.

"Do you remember our tentative plans to travel for break?" I ask.

"Yes." She draws out the word, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

"What are your thoughts on wine country?"

"Like, Mendoza? It's awesome."

My computer pings and Rosalie connects the dots.

"Aw, shit. I'm going to need all the wine I can get with your making me your third wheel. I knew you'd see him again, you shameless hussy."

IMS: Wine country is a go.

* * *

Emmett McCarthy is twenty-six. He graduated from Harvard Law and joined his father's practice the moment he passed the bar. He made a fortune getting the who's who of Wallstreet out of trouble. Six months ago he was asked to defend some real shady characters and just like that, Emmett McCarthy was done. Despite his father's threats of disownment and destitude, he walked.

Just like that.

Ever since he's been working his way south, set on traveling until he spends all his dirty money. We meet him on the bus to Mendoza and he really likes Rosalie, surprising no one.

"This is the best part of traveling the world," he says from across the aisel. Athough South American buses are designed for comfort, these huge seats are dwarfed by Emmett and he shifts around, trying to get his massive frame comfortable.

"The view?" asks Rosalie, gesturing to the stunning Andes that rise up before us, stark and grey and hauntingly beautiful against the clear blue sky. Braving this pass is my favorite part of the route. We'll climb impossibly high and go through customs inside a mountain. And all in a double-decker bus.

It is seriously cool.

"The view is perfect," Emmett says, staring intently at Rose. She rolls her eyes but I can tell that she love the attention. "But I meant the people. I've met so many awesome people. The locals. Fellow travelers from all over. Although, I must admit, it's nice to finally meet some Americans. My Spanish is kick ass now, but I've missed the mother tongue."

Rose leans even further across the aisle separating her and the behemoth, whispering in his ear. I have no doubt that her words are something gross about tongues and I turn towards the window, watching the mountains.

I can't sit still with only a few hours separating me from Edward, using only the view I saw with him for the first time as a distraction.

I shuffle in my seat and try to ignore Rosalie, working hard to keep herself from being a third wheel.

Above me a TV plays _Avatar: The Last Airbender_. The shitty film provides a poor distraction and even with the English subtitles translating the Spanish on the bottom of the screen, I can't focus for all the Edward in my head.

* * *

He is waiting in the bus station when we arrive, sitting on the ground, propped up against his back pack and resting his eyes. I wonder how long he's been sitting there and suddenly I don't know how to greet him.

Although I am no longer in denial about my strong romantic feelings for him – he is seventeen! – I still don't know what we are to each other exactly.

Is a friendly handshake appropriate? Will we exchange smiles and a hug that last a little too long? I could kiss his cheek. Would that be presumptuous? I don't want to be presumptuous, but then Edward's eyes open and he's scrambling to his feet, dodging people and nearly barreling over a little kid in his haste to reach me.

My grin is so wide it almost hurts.

When he gets close I open my mouth to greet him, but the words get lost against his lips. He cradles my face and kisses me as if every second we spent apart was lived in need and anticipation. My sense of hearing dulls and everything is Edward's lips moving against mine, his hands holding my face to his, my body pressed up against his.

I wrap my arms around him tight, assuring myself that he is here and that when he inevitably must let me go, he won't turn to mist.

His lips curve into a smile even as he kisses me, but then he stops because we both need air.

"Hi," he murmurs, resting his forehead against mine.

"Hi." I am breathless and happy. He wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me off the ground as I firm up my grip on his neck.

"So bloody good to see you."

Nodding in response, I close my eyes and decide to enjoy this while it lasts, even if he is seventeen.

I am thousands of miles from home where this is illegal. I am hundreds of miles from Chile where I am a teacher and this is immoral.

I give up and give in because Edward is my adventure.

* * *

**Ah! So many new readers! HUGE thanks to ooza who wrote a wonderful review for TSotE on FicTease. Upon reading it, I could not stop grinning for like an hour. So that's obviously great.**

**Donna is the best of all betas and I love her.**

**And i love you for reading. **


	6. All Heart

**Donna is the best.**

**I own none of the things.**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

**Chapter 6: All Heart**

Charlie buys more whiskey.

I don't know why this is more offensive than the copious amounts of beer he consumes daily, but it is different and I snap.

This is the man that made my life his whole life after my mother bailed and then gave me the entirety of his savings for college so I wouldn't start adult life up to my eyeballs in loans, but currently he is screaming at me as I dump a handle of amber alcohol down the drain and it gets difficult to remember to be grateful.

"You spent all my money on a fucking English degree and now you just keep wasting it!" he shrieks. Charlie is a mean drunk and my hands shake as I place the drained bottle in the center of the kitchen table. "That's money you just poured down the drain! You can start paying me back for school in booze, you ungrateful brat."

I am struggling to be grateful, but it is so very difficult when he pulled me back to a town I hate. When he's buying whiskey and beer by the damn gallon. When he seems to be eagerly racing towards heart attack number three or some other booze related disease.

Most of my meager paycheck is going towards bills for the house and Charlie's hospital stays. I am more than happy to help out, but not when he treats both me and his fragile heart like shit.

And I am keeping his secret, pretending like Charlie is coping with retirement with all the grace and dignity befitting the beloved former police chief. I haven't even told Billy about the cases upon cases of beer my father goes through in a week.

"I'm not buying you booze!" I yell, finally buckling under months of pressure. "You are a fucking alcoholic with a heart problem!"

This is the first time these thoughts of mine have been verbalized, and Charlie is gaping at me. Taking the job in Reñaca was my first moment of defiance and this is my first moment of verbalized, brutal truth.

Before I lived abroad, I would never have even considered shouting at my father this way. For a long time it was just Charlie and I. He could do no wrong, even when he was wrong.

But the ruddy-faced drunk currently blinking at me is not my father, not the same man that dutifully took me to every poetry reading in Port Angeles – no matter how awful – and was always in the stands during my brief obsession with swimming – even if I always came in last place. The man before me is not the same person who bought me tampons when I was thirteen and had Sue Clearwater teach him how to properly apply foundation when all the girls in my class discovered make-up.

"I'm not an alcoholic." His face is puce.

"Prove it," I reply.

For one glorious moment he looks like my real father, the one I left to go to South American rather than the sad, sick version that's been twisted into something mean while I was gone, but then he smirks at me from behind that mustache and my heart sinks.

"I don't have anything to prove," he says, deliberately taking a beer from the fridge, popping the top, and chugging the whole damn thing in one go.

I feel sick, all the strength that had me yelling abruptly gone. "No whiskey," I murmur, trying to get it back.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, continuing to smirk. "And if I don't listen? Are you going to leave me again? Like your mother?"

I drop my gaze to the floor, a chastised child. Suddenly I'm eight and somehow I just know that Daddy can't look at me without seeing _her_ and it hurts that he compares me to the woman who abandoned us both.

"I'm not going anywhere," I murmur, fighting tears.

Charlie is back in front of the TV with another beer, and I text Jacob. He shows up half an hour later with Billy and fish fry. They watch some sporting event while I steal all the beer in the fridge and Charlie's keys.

Outside I remove a spark plug from his ridiculous midlife crisis of a sports car, just to be sure.

It's trying to rain and the mist feels good against my skin. I have no desire to go back inside, so I walk. It's nice. I keep walking. I walk a lot, until I'm shivering, and then I walk some more.

On my third pass down the same block I realize that the Stanleys live on this street. After passing the house a fourth time Edward emerges, and I turn off the sidewalk, trekking up a hill and into the woods.

There is no need to check to see if he's followed me.

I walk until the whole world is green. This forest could be anywhere and I pretend that we're a thousand miles away in a different, mystical, new country where whiskey doesn't exist.

It only takes a few minutes for Edward to find me.

"Jesus, Bella," he says, frowning down at me. "You look like a ghost. Where's your coat?" He is slipping out of his own before the words are fully formed.

I don't realize how cold I am until he has me all wrapped up.

"You're freezing," he says.

"My dad's an alcoholic," I reply.

"Aw, fuck."

He echoes my thoughts exactly.

Edward pulls me into his chest and I am crying. The tears don't do much to add to my general wetness and Edward gathers my soaked hair, pulling it free of his jacket on my shoulders.

"I'm ruining your sweater," I say into his chest. The thing is lumpy and strangely patterned. Between my tears and the rain, the wool is starting to smell.

"Fuck the sweater," Edward says.

I laugh and then calm, safe and secure with my face pressed into Edward's chest, his arms heavy around my shoulders.

"Have you told anyone before?" he asks quietly as he rocks me. "It's why you're back here, right? That and the heart thing?"

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry, love."

Under the musk of wet wool, his smell brings me comfort. It reminds me of adventure and long bus rides and spending all day in bed back in my minuscule apartment in Reñaca.

In this moment I don't care that he is six years my junior, a student to my teacher. In this moment, I need him and here he is.

"He's killing himself, Edward." I squeeze his waist and steal his heat. "And he expects me to sit back silently and watch."

"It sounds like he truly needs help, Bella," Edward says. "And there is no one else to give it to him but you."

"He told me not to tell anyone."

"If he's killing himself, he really doesn't get to decide that."

And I know Edward is totally right. It shouldn't be this hard, but blatantly ignoring my dad's wishes – like I did when I dumped Jacob and took the job in Chile – is hard. But I did it then for selfish reasons. Surely I can do it now to save his life.

"What about his best friend? Your ex's father. Billy, was it?"

"Yeah. Billy."

We stay wrapped around each other in the misty forest until the sun goes down and losing an appendage to the cold becomes a real concern. Even then, I don't want to leave.

Edward kisses my cheek. I squeeze his hand and murmur a thank you.

I go home and tell Billy. He is unsurprised, but sad. Jake is more surprised, but Charlie is asleep on the couch at seven so it can't be that much of a shock.

Billy pulls me down into an awkward hug from his wheelchair.

"We'll figure it out, Bells," he says. "I promise. You're not alone in this."

The words make breathing easier.

* * *

On the way to the hostel we get lost.

Of my three companions – Emmett from the bus is now somehow part of the group – I am the least well traveled and I get stressed as we wander the streets of Mendoza, Argentina.

Wine country.

I don't see the cute little shops or tile piazzas. I don't people watch with wonder or hear the reggaeton blasting as we pass the doors of a basement club.

Rose and Emmett don't notice my silence but Edward does, and he takes my hand even if it is tricky to navigate the crowded sidewalks like this. Everyone seems to be enjoying this balmy Saturday night.

Emmett and I hang back as Rose and Edward find a local that finally seems to know what she's talking about.

"There's two hotels with the same name," Rose says. "That's why the directions are fucked."

"And why everyone we've talked to is sending us in different directions," Edward explains.

"I am assuming we are staying at the cheap one?" Rosalie asks, looking at me.

I nod my confirmation.

"Brilliant," says Edward, grinning. He takes my hand again. "We're just a few blocks away."

* * *

The hipster teenager manning the front desk of the cheap hostel speaks English so I handle check-in.

"So you have one private room and one bed in the bunk room, yes?" He slides two labeled keys across the counter.

Rose immediately grabs the one to the private room.

"Dibs," she shouts, already dragging Emmett up the stairs.

"What just happened?" asks Edward, blinking down at me.

"Is there another private room?" I ask the hipster teenager.

"No. There is another bed in the bunk room."

Edward and I pout on each other for a moment.

"Okay," I say, sighing heavily and turning back to the teen who is unimpressed by our plight. "Yes. Thank you."

"What just happened?" asks Edward again as I drag him away.

* * *

There is only one other occupant in the bunkroom, leaving twelve or so empty beds. We take the bunk bed as far away from the sleeping man in the opposite corner as possible, absolutely failing to be silent.

Edward gropes me in the dark as I pull out toiletries and sleepwear. The attentions are just cruel given the room's other occupant. I will absolutely not bang Edward here, even if it's been three long months of aching for him.

His lips find the side of my neck, that spot just behind my ear, and I groan as I struggle to lock our bags up in a cubby next to the beds.

"Edward." My intent is to scold him but his name comes out as an encouraging moan.

I am going to murder Rosalie in the most barbarous fashion conceivable.

His hands find my hips, pulling my back flush against his chest. He sways slightly and I follow him, my eyes drifting closed and he continues to kiss my neck. The occasional scrape of teeth makes me sigh.

"Fuck, did I miss you," he whispers in my ear, his fingers slipping under my t-shirt and tracing my ribs.

My breath hitches. "Yeah. Me too."

"God, you smell divine."

"No I don't. I was on a bus for eight hours."

"You do though." He drags his nose up my jaw. "Better than I remember. It's all better than I remember."

I turn, wrapping my arms around his neck as he fiddles with the clasp of my bra. I kiss him to keep him quiet. Somewhere in my mind I know quiet is important, but I can't recall why. Edward surrounds me and it's better than I remember, too.

It's his taste my memory had wrong and he opens his mouth, allowing me to slip my tongue between his lips so I can work on memorizing it for the next time I have to go without it.

The thought of going without it makes my heart hurt so I tangle my fingers in his hair and refuse to think about the end of the week.

Kissing Edward is so very different than kissing anyone I've ever kissed in the past – Jacob, Jasper when we were ten but that obviously does not count – because I feel it everywhere, not just my lips but from the ringing in my ears to my toes that try to curl even though I'm standing, even though I'm wearing shoes.

I want to be horizontal and without shoes, without clothes.

There is a bed near here and I push into Edward, grinding into him a bit until he stumbles back. I reach out blindly until I find the rickety metal bunk bed.

And then the ringing in my ears is interrupted by a hideously loud snort.

We break apart, confused for a moment before remembering just where we are. The sleeping man shifts and snorts in his squeaky metal bed. Edward and I stare at each other, chests heaving, and we burst into giggles.

"What do we do?" Edward whispers.

"Shower?"

"Genius."

* * *

"This is disgusting," I mutter, clutching my towel closer and surveying the shower. "So much mold."

"Maybe we could still—"

"No."

"—and not touch anything?"

"No."

I am so very thankful for my shower shoes.

"Well, we could at least wash the eight hour bus ride out of your hair," he says, pulling his shirt over his head.

I get momentarily distracted by the tan, sculpted planes of his chest, but then I remember the mold.

"Do not distract me with your sexiness and push me up against that moldy tile or I will freak out."

Edward grins and kisses me, setting all our stuff on the counter and walking me into the spray. The water is warm and the pressure is acceptable. Edward washes my hair and I sigh, hating stupid, horny Rosalie and her private room thievery.

There is groping and kissing and thankfully avoiding the walls. My shower shoes stay firmly on my feet. I manage to get Edward off but the angle just isn't working for me and I am firm in my conviction to avoid the mold.

He hitches my leg up around his waist and I moan, closing my eyes and letting my head loll against his shoulder. My hips move in time with his hand.

And then the water abruptly turns icy. We stumble over one another to get out of the painfully cold spray.

"This is a nice counter," Edward says as I wrap my towel around myself.

"No," I say, my teeth chattering. "It's fine, Edward. Let's just go to bed."

He pouts at me for a moment but I used my most stern of facial expressions and with an epic sigh he pulls on his PJs.

* * *

An hour later and I cannot sleep.

I'm on the top bunk. It's too narrow and I don't even shift around trying to get comfortable for fear I'll roll right off, breaking my foot before I can go on the bike tour through five vineyards we have scheduled for later in the week.

The room's other occupant is snorting away. Edward stopped rustling around in his thin, scratchy blankets twenty minutes ago.

I sit up and slide out of bed, using my own scratchy blanket to make a curtain. I tuck it in under the mattress of the top bunk and let it hang down to give the bottom bunk a bit of privacy. If snoring guy wakes up, he won't see anything.

I step out of my pajama pants and only trip a little bit. My t-shirt is discarded with much more grace.

"Why, Miss Swan," Edward whispers as I crawl into his bed. I can't find his lips in the dark and I end up almost kissing his eye, his jaw. "I do believe you are trying to seduce me."

"Trying?" My teeth sink into his earlobe.

"Succeeding. Always, love."

"Shush!"

"I thought you said you were fine."

"That was obviously stupid. But I maintain that the shower was gross."

"Hush, Bella. We wouldn't want to wake up an audience." His hands find my naked skin. "Oi! Are you naked?"

"Hush, Edward," I say, pulling his blanket more firmly over both of us. I nibble on his lower lip. "Wouldn't want to wake up an audience."

The bed is far too squeaky but by the time I get him as naked as I am I no longer care because his hands are on me, in me, touching me in that divine way of his that has my hands tugging at his hair. I groan out my pleasure in his neck, just below his ear, and I know it's important to be quiet but I can't recall why.

"Edward," I whisper, sitting up when my muscles once more are (mostly) back under my control. There isn't much room in the narrow space between upper and lower bunk, but it is enough. Above my head, my hands curl around bars. "Hurry," I say as he lines us up. "Edward, _hurry."_

And then I am sinking down onto him, rolling my hips, trying not to groan, trying to keep my eyes open to see Edward's eyes in the dark. His gaze is so intense and he tries to watch all of me at once, following the path of his own hands as they travel up my thighs to my stomach before taking my breasts in his palms, fingers warm and perfect.

I lean forward into his touch and lose the battle to keep my eyes on the wonderful boy beneath me.

The bed squeaks in time with my movements and one of Edward's entirely pleasing hands comes up to cover my mouth, giving me something to groan into, and I am thankful that I no longer am forced to concern myself with silence. I suck on the skin I find beneath my tongue.

It does not take long and when I come apart for the second time I do so thoroughly, moaning "Edward" into his palm.

I kiss him when I have the breath for it.

* * *

"Good morning, sunshines!" Rosalie finds Edward and I at a café directly across from the hostel in the morning.

From behind my sunglasses, I glare at her with everything I've got. Edward chuckles at my expression, resting his hand on my thigh beneath the rickety metal table.

"Oh, stop your bitching," Rose says. She can't seem to stop grinning. "Look at you. It's not like my little switcheroo kept you from getting it on."

"Oh, how can you even tell?" I demand.

"It's written all over that pretty little face. Under the dictionary definition of well-fucked there is a picture of Isabella Marie Swan."

"They added well-fucked to the dictionary?" Edward asks. He grins in a way that makes me far less cranky with Rosalie. "Brilliant."

"And it would totally be your face in the dictionary," I say.

"Oh, how can you even tell?" Rosalie asks, mimicking me in a way that is definitely offensive.

"You have a hickey on your neck, Rosalie. Who over the age of seventeen gives a hickey?" I immediately regret my words and I freeze with my coffee almost to my lips. I stare straight ahead and don't move in the hopes that no one was actually paying any attention to me.

I doubt I will ever be able to look at Edward again. Such a shame. He is so beautiful.

"So," says Edward, sounding as serious as I've ever heard him. "Is this your delightfully unsubtle way of requesting I give you a hickey?"

I gape at him for a moment and don't realize he is teasing me until both he and Rosalie abruptly burst into an unrestrained fit of laughter.

"Oh my God, Bella," says Rose. "Your face. Perfect."

Groaning, I turn to hide my face against Edward's shoulder. He laughs again, tangling his fingers in my hair and dropping a kiss on my forehead.

"Thank you for not giving me any visible hickies," I murmur.

"Visible?" says Rose.

I am forced to once more hide in Edward's shoulder and I am thankful that Emmett appears, bearing coffee and pastries.

"What did I miss?" he asks, taking the seat next to Rose and slinging an arm over the back of her chair with a whole lot of ease for someone who just met her yesterday.

"Bella is offended by your hickey," replies Rose.

"Rosalie!" I squeak.

"And Bella's face is in the dictionary under the definition of well-fucked."

"Nice," says Emmett, sipping on his coffee.

"Can I be a footnote?" Edward asks me.

"Edward," I say, reaching for my own drink. "You are the entire entry."

"Aw," coos Rose.

"You know, I think its conversation like this that has that dude over there staring at you guys," Emmett says. "Unless you know him."

Edward and I turn to look at said dude. He is quite old and bearded. I have never seen him before, but when he sees Edward and I he waggles his eyebrows, giving us a thumbs up.

I blink at him for a few moments. Edward returns the thumbs up. And then I understand.

"Oh no," I say, turning around. "That is our bunkmate. We have to go. This is now a to go breakfast."

Emmett and Rosalie laugh the whole way back to the hostel. I may never stop blushing again.

But, on the plus side, Edward somehow manages to get the key to the private room from Rose.

* * *

"So dinner?" Emmett asks.

We are sprawled out in the lounge, back at the hostel after a day spent hiking the Andes. I have yet to summon the energy to brave that terrible shower, every time I move my t-shirt scrapes my sunburn and I am too hungry to think about getting dinner.

All and all a nearly perfect day.

"Bella, love?" says Edward. "Pass me your laptop. I will find us an ideal dinner solution."

I do as he says and cuddle into his side on the threadbare couch, watching as he takes to Yelp.

"So far pizza is looking like the way to go," he says.

"Pizza!" echoes Emmett.

"Wait," Edward says, frowning at the screen. "Something's happening. Why is it beeping at me? Is that Skype?"

"Yes, silly," I reply, taking my laptop from him. "Oh, shit." My adoring smile falls right off my face when I see just who is calling me.

"Who the bloody hell is Jacob Black?"

* * *

I ignore Jake's call and drag everyone to downtown Mendoza for pizza. It is a subdued affair. Everyone is exhausted by our ultra active day and the call from Jake still has me rattled.

This is the first time he's tried to contact me since I broke up with him last summer and it was a direct call, not an email I could ignore until I get back to Reñaca, courage bolstered by piscola and ice cream, but a direct call that I was forced to ignore with Edward looking on.

As we walk back to the hostel Edward tucks my arm into his and slows our pace until Rose and Emmett are a full clock in front of us.

"So you never did tell me about this Jacob Black character."

"He's this guy from back home," I reply, knowing I should tell him at this point in our relationship but not sure how to start.

"Do you go ghost white and slam your laptop closed whenever a guy from back home rings you?" He is working very hard to be nice and gentle, but I can hear the annoyance in his tone.

There might be a bit of fear in there too.

"No, I was just surprised," I attempt to explain. "I mean, yeah. We dated. For a while. I broke up with him right before I moved to Chile."

"Ah."

That response is far from encouraging.

"It was kind of… rough. I surprised him and he was pretty hurt. I haven't heard from him since we broke up. And I'm not sure what he wants and I hate that I hurt him and you were sitting right there and maybe I feel a little guilty for not missing him," I say in a rush.

"Wow, okay," Edward says. "Are you going to call him back?"

"Probably not. I'll answer an email, maybe, but I don't want to call him."

"Do you regret it? Breaking it off?"

I laugh. "No. Not at all. But before we were together we were friends. I've known him my whole life and I wish I could just snap my fingers and make us go back there, to when we were just friends," I say, blushing again.

"I can't imagine it. Friends you've had your whole life," Edward murmurs. He looks sad.

It takes me a moment to get it but when I do I feel the need to put my arm around his waist. Edward called himself a child of the world when we first met and that sort of upbringing might have made him mature and wonderful and interesting, but not good for long-term relationships.

"I'm so glad I met you," I tell him.

He smiles, back to himself. It makes me feel better, too.

* * *

When we get back to the hostel I get on my computer while Edward takes a shower.

I have three emails from Jake, but I don't open them. Instead I stare at the little unopened digital envelopes and bite my lips for a full five minutes before I get another Skype call.

I freak out all over again and ignore him.

He instant messages me and I can't help but read that.

Jacob Black: goddamn it bella! video chat with me right the fuck now.

My mouth falls open with my shock. Anger paints my cheeks red.

Jacob Black: it isn't about us it's charlie get on video now

Jacob Black: please, bella I don't want to do this through this fucking instant messager

With shaking hands I do as he says.

His familiar face fills my screen a few minutes later and I get a little home sick for the first time since Christmas.

"Bella."

"Hey, Jake. What happened?"

Jake sighs and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "He's fine, okay? Your dad is okay. He is going to be okay."

His words do not calm me and I can feel panic clawing at my throat. "What happened?" I ask again.

"He's in the hospital, okay? He's fine, just sleeping and resting, but he did have a heart attack."

Heart attack.

While I've been on this side of the equator, loving every new experience and banging the perfect (minus the age thing) person, my father's heart has given out on him.

"Oh," I reply.


End file.
